


All the Things We Never Said

by sp_oops



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alcohol, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Vaginal Penetration, F/M, Fingering, Flashbacks, Grace Kink, Hand Jobs, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism (via the drift)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-02 14:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: A Supernatural/Pacific Rim crossover.Dean and Cas pilot a Jaeger calledHail Mary, and you'reHail Mary's Chief. That's fine. Also Dean and Cas are dating. That. . . is what it is, but you've kept your embarrassing crush on them a secret for ten years, and you always will.But then Cas gets hurt during Leatherback and Otachi's attack on Hong Kong. With a Breach assault on the horizon and Cas sidelined, you're the only reasonable candidate to drift with Dean and drive that Jaeger--even though drifting with him means he's gonna find out exactly how hard you've been pining.Fortunately, you're not the only one trying to hide an impossible crush.But you won't know that until you drift.(Canon-compliant with Supernatural through about the end of season 9).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a slightly adapted line that Herc says to Chuck near the end of Pacific Rim.
> 
> If you're from the Supernatural side o'this fandom and haven't seen Pacific Rim, I got you. All you need to get a good base in this world is [this](https://youtu.be/bGbU_20InKM?t=30s) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiNVjkJDsqI).
> 
> Get at me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).
> 
> Part 2: Saturday, May 12  
> Part 3: Saturday, May 26  
> Part 4: Saturday, June 2

 

**_January, 2025_ **

**_Hong Kong City_ **

The walkie-talkie at your hip crackles in bursts of barked instructions, lost in the noise of the crowd. You don’t need to hear it to know what they’re saying: _bring a stretcher, clear a fucking path_.

Yikes. _Yiiikes._

H-Deck is alive with a thronging crowd of Shatterdome techs, faces turned up toward the returning chopper despite the torrential rain. “Shit,” you mutter, blinking water out of your eyes. You squint against the downpour, then the lights from the Sikorsky as it slowly sinks out of the sky toward its mark on deck. 

The noise is unbearable, both the thumping air and the whining engine. Dean’s on that thing. So is Cas. Cas, the reason for your current _yikes_ mantra. Cas, who apparently hit the wall when Leatherback knocked into their powered-down Jaeger. “Please be okay,” you whisper. Water’s pouring off your cap already; Jesus, they said monsoon season was early this year, but this is nuts. “Please, Cas. . .”

The Sikorsky lands with a _thud_ you feel beneath your boots. The slowing rotor blades sluice rainwater in every direction. When the door slides back, one of the crew kicks the stairs open and bounds down them two at a time. 

Dean’s right behind her. And Cas is—“Shit,” you breathe, startled into stillness. Cas is blinking dazedly into the rain. His left arm is slung around Dean’s neck, his right arm cradled against his chest. Even from here, you can see the starburst path of blood down his temple, slick in his dampening hair. Dean’s entire face is drawn tight with worry, his arm around Cas’ waist, his other hand clamped around Cas’ wrist, over his shoulder.

The surging commotion around you, the screams of Otachi in the distant city as _Gipsy_ kicks the shit out of it, and still, when Dean’s eyes find yours and _lock_ , everything else melts away. 

His mouth makes the shape of your name. Just for a second, his worry slips into a clear and desperate _help._

“Let me through.” You shove your way forward. “Make a hole!”

You reach Dean and Cas when the stretcher does. Med techs swarm them, trying to direct Cas toward the stretcher. “No,” Cas protests, leaning heavily on Dean. “I’m fine, I—” 

“Don’t give me that shit, tough guy,” Dean says, all forced cheer. “Get your ass on that stretcher.” He looks at you, swaying toward you even with the weight of Cas. “Chief, tell ‘im.”

“Cas, my man.” You resist the urge to smooth Cas’ damp hair off his forehead, out of that red gash. “Listen to your boyfriend, huh. His geriatric ass can’t haul you all the way to med bay like this.”

Dean says, “ _Ouch,”_ but his eyes are grateful.

“Take the free ride,” you urge Cas.

His blue eyes search yours. God, he’s dazed; your heart thrums in fear. “You’re right,” he says. He starts to reach for you, but then his whole face collapses in a wince. “ _Ah_.” He holds his arm to his chest. “Yeah.” He’s gritting his teeth. “Yeah, you’re definitely right.”

“His arm,” Dean says, as the med techs lower the stretcher so Cas can sit on it, “that right side, there—might be broken.” 

“Sprained,” Cas corrects through a clenched jaw. “Just sprained.”

“Jesus,” you tease, as much for Dean’s benefit as yours, “you are so full of shit.” 

Cas leans back on the raised upper half of the stretcher, closing his eyes. “Choosing to take that as a compliment.”

And they’re off, the med techs wheeling him back toward the watery lights of the Shatterdome.

Beside you, Dean sways a little, looking drained. Lost. He says, “Hey, kid.”

He must really be rattled; he hasn’t called you that in—never mind. “Hi.” _I thought you guys were dead until_ Gipsy _showed up_ , you don’t say. “I wanna follow you up to med bay, but…”

“No, I know. _Mary_ ’s still out there.” 

“Yep.” Their Jaeger is still slumped along mile four of the Miracle Mile, not too far off from _Striker_. Leatherback’s freaky bio-EMP took her out like a light. It took _everything_ out like a light; the Shatterdome’s backup generators only truly powered up, like, five minutes ago. “That damage to the left flank as bad as it looks from here?”

“Yeah. Worse, maybe. Whole thing’s listing a bit.” 

“Shit. Well. We’ll fix it.”

“Yeah, I know you will.” Dean’s lashes are clumped together, and he’s got major helmet hair. The damp swell of his lower lip is wobbling. God, how would it feel, caught gently between your own lips? How would it feel to work him out of that drive suit—to feel Cas’ hands cover your own as you dragged Dean’s zipper from chest to groin. . .

Ah, feck’s sake. _Focus._ At least one thing hasn’t changed in a decade: you still pick the absolute _worst_ times to think about boning these two.

You can’t bone ‘em. But you can grip Dean’s shoulder, because he looks like he needs it. And apparently he does, because he leans gratefully into the touch. He licks that stupid lower lip. He says, “I wish you. . .” Your heart almost stops, but he shakes his head, looks away. “Be careful out there, okay.”

“I’ll check in on you guys soon as we get back,” you promise. “And hey—text Sam about Cas, if you can get a signal. Don’t let him find out in the news.”

“Yeah. Good thinking.” Dean takes a deep breath, and holds out one gloved fist. “Ready. . .”

Heart warming, you bump your knuckles against his. “. . . break.” 

Then you turn to the crew out on the helipad. You’ve got work to do.

 

*****

 

*****

 

*****

 

**_August, 2013_ **

**_Lebanon, Kansas_ **  

_Knockknockknock._ “Hey.” Sam’s voice, urgent. “Wake up.”

You barely drag your head up off the pillow, squinting into the darkness of your room at the bunker. Sam’s shadow darkens the hallway light through the door grate. You rasp, “Timezzit?”

“Library,” says Sam. “Get there. Now.”

You flop back down. “Are you for real right—”

“ _Now._ ”

“Jesus, _fine_.” 

As you pull a sweatshirt on, your phone buzzes twice. Text alert. **Have you seen the news?**  

It’s from an unknown number—which, lately, means Cas using a burner phone. Still on the lam with the angel tablet. Frowning, you pocket your phone and get moving.

Dean’s just gone past your door, and waits for you to catch up, squinting and sleepy in the washed-out hallway light. His hair’s sticking up on one side. Gray sweats, black tee. Dead guy robe. Even exhausted as you are, the sight makes your heart do a happy little flip-flop. “Hey,” he croaks. “How were your three hours?”

You just glare.

His grin pulls up all lopsided. “Yeah. Feelin’ that.”

In the library, Sam sits beside a single glowing lamp, his laptop screen facing away from you. It illuminates the furrow in his brows, and then the open fear in his eyes when he looks up. Nearby, his decimated EMF meter sits in pieces, waiting for you to fix it. 

Dean, now half a step behind you, croaks, “This better be good."

Sam’s too shook up to glare. “Just get over here.” 

At first you don’t believe it.

It’s gotta be fake. Some kind of _War of the Worlds_ meets JJ Abrams promo. But CNN is running real-time footage of the—the— _thing_ , that giant thing—tearing through the Golden Gate Bridge, trailing a greasy blue path through the murky strait behind it. F-16s rip across the San Francisco sky; battleships charge in from around the Pacific. Earthquakes still rock the coastline. People tweet pictures from ground zero. 

An hour later, Obama hosts a press conference in the Rose Garden, and that’s when it starts sinking in. It’s real, all right. It’s a monster the size of a skyscraper, and then some.

The three of you are still camped in the library. You and Dean have grabbed your own laptops. The bunker smells like coffee; everybody’s practically got an IV drip. You’re on the phone with your hunter friends and the Winchesters are on the phone with theirs. You conference Cas in at the library table, and though he’s as bam-fucking-boozled as the rest of you, you still wish he was here. You tell him as much, going for casual, but the way he replies in kind with breathtakingly sincere honesty—your face heats, and you avoid looking up at Dean and Sam. 

But all those calls, and nobody can figure out what the _fuck_ this thing is. The images of it on the news, from helicopters, from shaky phone cameras—it’s the scariest shit you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen enough scary shit for a lifetime.

You three practically live in front of your laptops for the next few days as the monster tears up the coast. You’re watching the news, going through the Men of Letters archive. _Nothing_ talks about monsters this big. Cas gets a new phone and texts reams more suggestions of lore to try, but he’s never seen this, _never_.

The death toll goes up each day. The California coast is a warzone, and still that thing tries to make headway. Sometimes it’s too much, and you gotta step away. Sam copes with exercise. Dean hides in the kitchen, swigging beer as he cooks, handing you jobs chopping or stirring or taste-testing when you ask. You fix Sam’s EMF meter and then upgrade your own. You borrow Dean’s dweeby toolbelt and replace a belt in your car’s engine. You press enough salt rounds to fill a suitcase. You worry about Cas. About Kevin. 

Evening of the sixth day, Dean’s setting dinner in front of you and Sam when the news comes through: they took the monster down. _Trespasser_ , they call it. 

Things. . .kind of go back to normal? Normal as it gets, anyway. 

Six months later, the second monster—Kaiju, they’re calling ‘em now, since they’re essentially Godzillas on steroids—crawls out of the sea and tears Manila to bits. Four months after that, a third Kaiju decimates Cabo. And after that, you forget what “normal” meant in the first place.

 

* * *

 

**_September, 2014_ **

**_Muncie, Indiana_ **

Days after the fourth Kaiju attack (Scissure, they call this motherfucker, and he left Sydney a smoldering ruin), the demons go underground, the angels go above-cloud, and inside a red-lit warehouse outside Muncie, Indiana, Dean stabs Metatron through the heart.

This is one of the most coordinated stings you guys’ve ever pulled. Dean down here running offense, Cas and his angel friend Hannah rigging shit so that Metatron could spill his dirty laundry over angel radio, you and Sam in the bullpen just in case Dean needed the backup. 

And he did, just—even beating the snot out of Dean, Metatron had the juice to throw you and Sam into the nearest wall and keep you there.

Dean still gets him, though. When Metatron goes down, his hold over you and Sam releases; the two of you hit your feet, hard. As Hannah and Cas emerge from the shadows with their weird angel radio rig, the elegant splay of Metatron’s shadowed wings smoke along the concrete floor.

Dean looks like hell. Literally, he’s streaked with his own blood, his left eye’s swollen shut. He’s gripping the First Blade so hard that his entire arm shakes. Through his broken mouth, he slurs, “Teamwork makes the dream work, huh.” Then his knees buckle. 

Sam gets to him first, but Cas is close behind, and they lower him by his arms to a concrete block so he can sit. Dean looks right at you as they fuss over him, his one good eye somehow relieved and weary and fond all at once. He says, “Kiddo. Need you to do me a solid.”

He hasn’t really looked at you like that, with so much gentleness, since. . . well. Since before the Mark. You gulp. “What’s up?”

Dean holds the blade out, hilt-first. “Need you to take this before I change my mind.”

Your hand shakes as it wraps around the hilt, which is tacky with fresh and drying blood. You try to grin. “Dude. _Gross._ ”

“Tellin’ me,” he says. He’s leaning heavily on Sam, and Cas is watching you, too, something all tender in his gaze. You try not to look too pleased about it 

When the other angels show up, exonerating Cas and Hannah, they take the First Blade, which the lot of you willingly part with. Then—and it takes a baker’s dozen of them—they heal Dean and lift the Mark from his arm. It leaves him dazed and dizzy, swaying in his seat on that concrete block.

As the angels confer, Hannah returns to the four of you. She’s looking at Cas when she says, “It’s time.”

That sounds pretty damn final. You ask, “ _What’s_ time.” 

Cas glances at you, Dean, and Sam, his face shadowed with guilt. 

“Cas,” says Dean, staring out of both eyes now, “what’s she talking about.”

“Did he not tell you?” Hannah’s voice is light—sincerely curious. “The angels. We all agreed: once the matter with Metatron was decided, we’re calling everyone in to heaven, and shutting the door behind us.”

Unlike you or Dean, Sam has enough breath for incredulity. “What? Why?”

“The Breach in the Pacific Ocean,” Hannah says patiently. “The monsters coming out of it—we’ve never seen anything like them. We don’t have the strength to fight them here on Earth, in these vessels. So we’ll gather our resources, and find answers, as one. Souls of the dead will still reach us, but our brothers and sisters won’t come and go until we know how to stop them.”

Muscles flare in Cas’ jaw. “I’m not going. We’ve discussed this.”

Hannah’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious. I didn’t think you’d really—”

“Our mission has _always_ been about protecting humanity.” Cas is holding himself still, but somehow he looks like a hurricane. “I won’t turn my back on the people I love.”

_Meep_.

“This _is_ protecting humanity.” Hannah takes Cas’ hand. A jealous and petty heat sparks through you, and you’d be embarrassed if Dean wasn’t glaring, too. “With the demons pulled back into Hell, they’re no longer a threat to humans. And with all our brothers and sisters working together to solve this, it won’t take long at all.” 

“Won’t take long for _who_?” Cas pulls his hand back. “For us, maybe. But for them—humans—it could take decades. Centuries. There may not be a world _left_ by the time you solve this.”

Holy shit. The world’s breaking, but you just assumed Team Free Will would face it with you. The thought of doing this without Cas. . . And god, the most recent wounds of this war are so freaking fresh. Thousands dead in Sydney, thousands more trapped beneath crushed buildings, and rescuers rapidly running out of time to save them. Australia’s in a state of emergency. Poisonous swirls of Kaiju blue blanket the coral reefs for miles. Everything’s been a nonstop shitstorm of bad and worse news. Ever since the first attack, you’ve needed your strange little family more than ever. Cas is part of it, whether or not you’d still take the first available opportunity to jump his bones and—whatever. _Not the time._

Hannah’s crestfallen. “Castiel. . .” 

“We could take him by force,” says one of the angels behind Hannah. 

Cas glares at them; it’s a wonder his blade doesn’t fall out of his sleeve. “You can try.” 

“Don’t,” says Hannah, holding out an arm as one of the angels starts forward. The angel glowers, but stays put. “Castiel,” she says, voice wobbly, “we just restored your grace. Your _own_ grace. If you do this—if you stay behind—you’ll be cut off.” 

Cas doesn’t move. “I know how it works.” 

“But do _they_?” Hannah takes a step forward, fixing her bright eyes on you, then Dean, then Sam. “His grace will drain away from him,” she says. “Day by day. Less and less, until it’s gone. Until he’s human.”  

Your heart lurches. Cas _can’t_ want that. He can’t, can he? He _hated_ being human.

“Cas,” says Dean. There’s something so broken in that single syllable, so desperate, that for a moment you aren’t sure if you were meant to hear it. “You don’t have to—” 

“It’s not your decision, Dean.” Cas smiles gently “Though I appreciate the concern.” He turns to Hannah. “I’ve made my choice,” he says. “There’s no use arguing with me. I’m staying here even if I have to fight you to do it.”

Hannah’s lower lip trembles. “Very well,” she says at last. “Then I wish you luck.”

Cas takes a step closer to her, relaxing out of his defensive stance. “Hannah.” He reaches up, touches the back of her head, and tilts their foreheads together.

You can’t hear what they say, but you can see the angels bristling. Actually, your own hackles are up, envy churning in your stomach. _Come the hell on_ , you think, looking away. _He doesn’t owe you a damn thing. He’s not yours, and you aren’t his_.

When he turns to the three of you, his eyes brim with resolve. Relief, almost.

The angels vanish behind him. He doesn’t look back. 

 

* * *

 

**_May, 2015_ **

**_Lebanon, Kansas_ **

A few weeks after Vancouver gets hit, Sam drops a bag at the bottom of the bunker stairs and turns to face you, Dean, and Cas. His hands are deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “Pan Pacific Defense Corps is putting together a rescue team in Seattle,” he announces, avoiding eye contact with Dean. “Like the National Guard, but. Follows the attacks. Helps clean up. Pulls people out of rubble. Ah. That sorta thing.” 

Carefully, with an eye on Dean, Cas says, “So you’re joining them.”

“Leaving in the morning.” Sam looks up from beneath his lashes. “Yeah.” 

Dean blinks. 

Then the arguing starts.

You and Cas take cover in the kitchen. Fridge needs a cleanout, anyway. 

After everybody got back from Muncie, Cas still could’ve waved a hand and everything would’ve automatically flitted back into place like some Mary Poppins witchery. Now, though—it’s getting worse by the day. Yesterday he showed up for breakfast bundled into one of the Men of Letters robes. “Is it always so drafty in here?” he’d grumped, and you and Dean traded slightly horrified looks, dismayed that he’d now lost enough grace to feel the bunker’s underlying chill.

He’s been sleeping more often, too, and hating it, but god, his bedhead is spectacular. Dean’s trying to teach him how to cook, because he’s been hungry, and so irritated about it that he can barely hang onto the lessons Dean so patiently provides. 

So the kitchen’s become a sort of refuge, anyway. As you throw shit out and start scouring the crud off some of the heavier stock pots, you simmer with guilt. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but a few weeks ago, on a case, you picked up a postcard outside a recruitment station. The PPDC isn’t just putting together a rescue team. They’re looking for engineers, and maybe even pilots, to start building and driving these completely badass, completely humongous robot fighters. Mechs. One of ‘em, _Brawler Yukon_ , took down the Kaiju that attacked Vancouver. 

Besides. Team Free Will doesn’t sit on the sidelines when it comes to shit like this. You’re surprised none of you made a move to get away earlier. Selfishly, you’re glad Dean and Cas are still here. For now, that is.

You’re up to your elbows in suds with Cas, working side by side in quiet solidarity (and ignoring how good his arms look under his rolled sleeves), when Dean makes it into the kitchen. He looks adrift, like somebody pulled his life out from under him. Yeesh.

Cas dries his beautiful hands on a dishtowel as he eyes Dean. “A drive might help.” 

Dean doesn’t really look up. “Worth a shot.” He turns to leave, then pauses. Casually, but with a quiet hopefulness that surprises you, he says, “You guys comin’, or what.”

About ten miles north of Lebanon, almost at the state line, Dean pulls off onto a service road that bisects a verdant bean field. There’s no traffic, and by now, the sun is setting out the windshield. He throws the Impala in park and sits back, one elbow on the open window ledge so he can press his fingers to his closed eyes. 

You’re leaning on the front seat, ignoring how Cas’ shoulder presses all snug along your arm. Ugh, whatever—don’t overthink it. Dude doesn’t care, or he would’ve moved.

At last, Dean speaks. “Y’know, with everything going down, I just. . .” He drops his hand, staring out the windshield. “Kinda figured we’d all be sticking together, here. Working the problem.”

_We’re not going anywhere_ , you want to assure him, but then you remember that battered postcard. Feck’s sake, it’s in your jacket pocket. 

“Sam _is_ working the problem, in his own way,” Cas points out. “If he can’t find what’s causing it all, then he can at least help treat the symptoms.”  

“Can’t blame him,” you add, trying not to sound too guilty. “Hard not to want to do something.”

Dean twists around, bracing his forearm against yours ( _gulp_ ) so he can look at you. “Why d’you sound like you’re about to give me the same speech he did?”

Shit. “Uh.”

Cas sighs. “So hypocritical.”

Dean glares at him. “Who is.”

“You,” says Cas. He reaches forward and thumps the glove box.

It drops open to reveal a stack of papers, a handful of cassettes. . . and on top of it all, a postcard you recognize.

Dean deflates. “Dammit, Cas. You’re a nosy sonofabitch, you know that.”

Cas shrugs. “I was looking for Zeppelin B-sides.”

You’re staring at Dean. “Are you joining up?”

“ _No_.” He thumps the glove box shut again. His hand brushes Cas’ knee on the way back, and he flinches.

Weird.

“At least, ah.” He shifts. “Not yet.”

Welp, that’s about as good an opening as you’re gonna get. You reach into your pocket, then drop the postcard onto the seat between him and Cas. 

Dean stares at it. Then he starts a slow-growing smile. “Wow,” he says. “Okay.”

“If you want to go, why is so wrong for Sam to do the same?” Cas is quiet.

“He’s doing the civilian side,” says Dean. “I just assumed he’d rather—y’know, join the side that gets to _do_ something. Fight the good fight.”

“Honestly,” you say, “after the last few years. . . I think it’d do him some good to just get to straight-up help people.”

“He’s tired of fighting,” says Cas. “He’s got blood on his hands.” 

“Dude.” Dean’s frowning. “Gadreel was over a year ago—”

“You know that guilt never goes away,” you point out. 

“And that isn’t all,” says Cas. “I think this could be good for him. To come into his own, now that you’ve all got a clean slate.” He means the way he got Hannah to clear everyone’s federal records before the angels fucked off to heaven. Brought Dean and Sam “back” from the dead, got Cas an identity and a social security card (it showed up in the Lebanon P.O. Box a week later), cleared everyone’s police records. Turned you into normal citizens with decent credit scores, who had never been in the public eye. “It’s a second chance he didn’t think he’d get. He can go off on his own, and see what he’s truly capable of.”

Dean mulls that over. Your arm’s still against Cas’ shoulder, and Dean’s, both warm through their layers. At last Dean says, “My brother might be cool with playing cowboys and Kaijus on his own, but. I’m not.” He picks up the postcard. “I’m not gonna do this unless you’re both in. Same division.” 

You study Cas’ profile, backlit with the pink and gold of the setting sun. “Cas? Whatcha think?”

He’s got a brow up, but he’s smiling. “Someone needs to look after you two.” 

“Oh, is that how it is,” Dean teases.

“Works for me,” you say, trying not to fizzle with relief. “Are we for real? We really gonna do this?” You reach between them, holding out your hand palm-down.

Cas covers it with his own, and you both look at Dean expectantly. 

Dean gets the two of you with a deadpan stare. “Seriously?” 

You nudge him, grinning. “Put your damn hand in the stack, Dean.”

He rolls his eyes, but he does it. His fingertips graze your knuckles, laid through Cas’ touch. “By our powers combined, or whatever,” he says.

Sam leaves in the morning. A week later, you, Dean, and Cas follow. 

 

 

* * *

 

**_June, 2018_ **

**_Seattle, Washington_ **

It takes a few years, but you get there.

With Dean and Cas as good as they are in the simulators, and with you behind half the improvements in the Mark-4 line of Jaegers, well. It was only a matter of time before they gave you a Jaeger of your own. 

Marshal Whitcomb, a severe woman whose respect you’ve craved since you got here, sizes you up as you take in the news. And the heavy silver pin that you’re turning over in your fingers. The arched wings gleam up at you. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

“Cut the crap. And at ease.” Her brown eyes are warm, for the first time ever. “You’re the best we have, and all the higher-ups know it. Damn time you had your own ride. Wouldn’t want anybody else.”

You unlock your shoulders. “Thank you, Marshal.” And, on the heels of sudden dread, you add, “And my pilots?”

Whitcomb drops two manilla folders on the desk in front of her. Pinned to the front of each: black and white cadet photos of two scrawny-ass white boys who are _not_ Dean and Cas. “Ken and Steve Taylor. Out of Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”

You’ve heard of them. They’re. . . fine, you guess, considering they’re only in the program at all thanks to their daddy’s connections. “Uh." 

“I know you had your heart set on the pilots you came up with. But they—” 

“Yeah. I did. Ranger Winchester and Ranger Novak have been training for the Mark-4s for nearly two years now. They’ve got the best simulator scores in their entire division—” 

“I know their simulator scores. But there’s no denying the fact that they’re also the _oldest_ rangers in their division.”  

You stare. “So what?” 

Whitcomb’s narrowed eyes suggest you’re on thin ice. “ _So_ , in the field, their reaction times could be slower. Between them, they’ve got four additional decades of memories on the Taylor boys—” _Plus forty years in Hell and a few millennia of military experience,_ you think but don’t say. “—and we still don’t know how that would affect their drift.”

Rangers don’t drift in the simulators, and thank fuck for that. There’s been talk of that shit for future cadets in the program, but the thought makes you shudder. Randomly connecting brains with countless people, who can see everything— _everything_ —and just for a simulator? Not even using that connection to operate a real Jaeger? Nah. You’re good. 

“What about the Hansen brothers.” You’re trying to keep the pleading out of your voice. “In, uh— _in Sydney_ , where you’re shipping me. They’re both almost forty, they—”

“They’ve been driving _Lucky Seven_ for years now. They’re established soldiers.” Whitcomb sighs, deflating a little. “I’m sorry. I really am. If it was my decision, Winchester and Novak would be going with you. But it’s out of my hands. The Taylor brothers are your pilots.”

So it’s not her call. Then whose. . . ?

Oh. Yeah, of course. Deep breath. Whitcomb said you’re the best they have, so you’ve got leverage. Use it. “Then I’m not their Chief.”

Whitcomb lifts one impressive brow, but that might actually be a glimmer of respect in her eyes. “Excuse me?”

You toss those shiny wings of rank on her desk, hoping to hell this doesn’t backfire. “Give these to someone else. I’m not going to be _Hail Mary’_ s chief unless Dean Winchester and Cas Novak are my pilots. I won’t give up two top-notch rangers for a couple of kids who think they’re big shots. _Especially_ not kids whose Senator dad bribes the PPDC to move ‘em up the ranks before they’re ready.”

Whitcomb braces her hands on the desk. She’s silent for long moments. At last she mutters, “My bosses won’t like this. They need you.”

“And I need Dean and Cas.” 

_Ack._ You regret that immediately, because _wow_ , lately it’s been true on like, half a dozen levels. But you keep your face impassive. You hope, anyway.

“I’ll send that up the chain,” she says. A barely-there smile hovers at the corner of her mouth. “With any luck, you’ll be back for those wings by the end of the day.”

She’s right.

The next morning, you, Dean, and Cas get called up to the conference room, where Whitcomb spreads out blueprints, photographs, and whitepapers. “All right,” she says. “Here’s your ride. Have a look.”

“ _Hail Mary_ ” is just about the lamest name for a Jaeger you’ve ever heard, but it’s not like you got to name it. “Come on,” you say. “Seriously? What is this, the last minute of the fourth quarter?”

“Well,” says Whitcomb, glancing behind her at the TV, where the news is covering the cleanup efforts in San José. “If you think about it. . .”

Cas is more on board. “I like it,” he says, looking over the photos. “A prayer and a gamble. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Ugh,” Dean mutters. “Wasn’t counting of having to think of my freakin’ mom every time somebody says its name.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “But I guess it could be worse. At least we’re not _Chrome Brutus_.”

“Besides,” says Cas. “Half the Jaeger names in the last few years have religious undertones. Overtones, even.”

“Still,” grumbles Dean. “Can’t they just name it Optimus Prime and be done with it?”

“Jesus.” You nudge Dean’s shoulder. “You frickin’ nerd.”

He just nudges you back. “Takes one to know one.” 

Whitcomb walks you through each blueprint, and shows you a virtual model on her tablet. The actual, physical Jaeger is currently parked at the Shatterdome in Sydney, Australia, where you’ll all be shipped next week. But looking at the model—you can’t wait to see _Hail Mary_ in person. The metal on the outside shines deep, dark blue, almost black, slashed through with stylishly-placed bare steel. The gold windscreen looks like a pair of gas-station sunglasses. Fuel cells at the shoulder curve at the top before plunging down and flaring at the bottom like wings. The test footage you’ve seen, she walks like she’s swaggering. You _love her._

“It’s only an eighteen-hour plane ride away,” says Whitcomb.

“Yeah,” says Dean. He folds his arms. “Goodie.”

Cas smirks. “Do you need me to walk you through the Bernoulli principle again?”

Whitcomb stares. “Don’t like flying, Winchester?”

“I am _fine_ ,” says Dean, “with flying.”

“As a general concept,” you clarify. “Not when you’re actually on a plane.”

Cas touches Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll distract you. Surely there’s in-flight movies you’ve been meaning to make me watch.”

Dean looks at him all fondly, with a kind of understanding you’ve been noticing a lot lately. It makes your skin prickle with pleasant heat even though it’s not directed at you. “Yeah,” Dean says. “Good point. We gotta get you caught up.”

When Dean turns back to the diagrams, Cas winks at you.

That makes your skin prickle pleasantly, too.

 

* * *

 

**_June, 2018_ **

**_Sydney, Australia_ **

Dean and Cas drift for the first time in a test run the day you all arrive in Sydney. Well, evening, technically. The J-Tech crew there—who you get along with swimmingly—wanna make sure visibility’s good in the dark. And that all the lights work. Dean and Cas calibrate _Hail Mary_ in its dock inside the Shatterdome, then take her around the block. The block being Port Jackson. 

It goes off flawlessly. You hang out in LOCCENT, watching the monitors, watching Whitcomb (reassigned with you) direct it all, listening in on the headset chatter from Dean and Cas. 

You’re there when the Conn-Pod opens back up, along with a small army of tech crew folks to see how everything went.

Dean and Cas look dazed as hell. First drifts are rough, everyone knows that, but they. . . _wow_. Dean’s got patchy color in his cheeks as though he’s just slammed a fourth shot, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes. Cas isn’t pink, but he’s. . . distracted? He _also_ can’t seem to look at you, but he keeps stealing glances at Dean, who’s stealing ‘em right back. Even more than usual.

Like. You’re not blind. They’ve always had an intensity together. But this—Jesus, what the shit did they see in that drift? 

After their debrief, they disappear for hours.

Legit _hours_. 

Doesn’t take a mathematician to put _that_ particular two and two together.

You’re heading out of your quarters for a brisk, late-night, can’t-sit-here-and-think-about-that-a-second-longer walk around the ‘dome when you run into Hercules Hansen. The very dude you referenced to Marshal Whitcomb as having his shit together despite his advanced (ehl oh _ehl_ ) age. He showed you, Dean, and Cas around this afternoon. Helped you get your bearings. 

“Late one for you,” he says, chipper. “Shouldn’t you be jet lagged?”

“Probably.” You study him, his friendly smile. He was so easy to talk to earlier. It’s out of your mouth before you can think to stop it: “Know anywhere around here we can get a drink?”

His eyes shine. “Depends. Feel like being recognized?” 

“I—what? Why would I be recognized?”

“You’re the chief of a new Jaeger,” he says. “And you just moved in. People ‘round here’ve heard of you.” 

“Jesus,” you mutter, but you’re smiling because he is, too. “Um. Solid ‘nope’ on being recognized.” 

Herc—as he insists you call him—takes you to a dive bar in walking distance, close to the docks. It’s dim, and a little smoky even though no one’s smoking. Bowls of peanuts sit along the polished bar, and Australian Footy matches give play-by-plays in closed caption. Creedence pours through the speakers.

It feels like home, actually. Like a shitty bar next to a shitty motel. It’s perfect. 

Herc starts the both of you off with shots of bourbon. “Look like you could use the kick.”

You’re relishing the burn in the back of your throat. “Long day,” you say finally.

“I bet.” He signals the bartender, and not long after, pints arrive. He holds up his glass, but casually. One elbow still on the bar. “To _Hail Mary_ ,” he says. “Long may she kick arse.” 

“Cheers, Herc.” Tickled, you sip when he does.

“So tell me.” Herc leans on his arms. “Day that you had, jet lagged as you are—still wide awake, are we.”

You take another drink from your (crisp, delicious) beer. Why the hell are you so miserable? It’s not like you’re _surprised_. “Guess, ah. Guess I’m not used to my pilots bailing on me. I mean—” Yo, _rein it in_. “—me’n Cas and Dean. We came up through the ranks together. We go way back. Was just kinda hoping they’d wanna. . .” Be the ones to get drinks with you. Tell you what the _hell_ drifting is like. Maybe give you an actual, in-person report on what it was like to drive that Jaeger. Or check the local news, see what kind of monsters you can find around here. The three of you have been taking cases in your downtime, the last few years—or at least, investigating things where you can all stay reasonably behind the scenes. You just took down a duo of vamps in Seattle a few months back. 

Herc fills in the silence. “Instead they shacked up.”

You snort. “Yep. In more ways than one, I think.”

Herc sips, too. “It’s not uncommon after first drifts, if the pilots aren’t siblings. Or partners already.”

You study him. His co-pilot’s his brother Scott. “Super weird, right? The drift?”

“Don’t get me started.” He grins. “But yeah. How long’ve Dean and Cas known each other?” 

“'Bout ten years.” 

“Long time to keep things bottled up, if that was the case. Probably have a lot to, ah. . .” 

“Yeah, yeah, all right.” You manage to smile back. “Don’t make me get the brain bleach.”

“What’d you think that bourbon was for?” 

You laugh, and for now, you put Dean and Cas out of your mind. If you’re going to make it here in Sydney, it’s time to look forward. Not backward. Not at the should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, is-this-really-a-crush-or-are-they-just-hot feelings you’ve been nursing on each of them, separately, for so long that it’s just become part of the fabric of your everyday life. _Nope._ They’ve finally found some kind of romantic happiness. You’re not gonna get between them, literally or figuratively.

No matter how much you want to.

 

 

*

*

* 

 

**_January, 2025_ **

**_Hong Kong City_ **

Buh. There isn’t any time to mourn Sasha and Alexis. Or the Weis. There isn’t even time to pull the wreckage of their Jaegers out of the bay. Their crews get diverted; every resource in the Shatterdome goes into repairs on _Striker, Gipsy,_ and _Mary_. 

God, this sucks. You only just met the Weis, but you met Sasha years ago, when she and her husband and their Jaeger spent a few months in Sydney. She drank Dean under the table, de _-stroyed_ Tendo at poker, and gifted you one expensive stick of ruby-red lipstick before she and Alexis went back to Siberia. “You need it more than I do,” she said, but in a fond, big-sisterly sort of way. 

You’d been looking forward to catching up. She and Alexis were barely here in Hong Kong for 24 hours, and now. . . 

Damn it.

At least all those years of being a hunter, and now years of fighting the Kaiju war, you’ve become a damn pro when it comes to compartmentalizing. Nothing like a little nonstop trauma to help fine-tune that shitty talent. You can’t do anything to bring them back, so. So you grit your teeth, straighten your hat, and get to work.

_Hail Mary_ is a dang _mess_. Leatherback left a vicious dent in the left chest plate that took out two missile bays. The right arm’s gonna need twisted back into alignment. Support discs in the left flank got busted, so the whole thing lists, like Dean said. There’s no way to tell what’s been rattled loose in the Conn-Pod—the cockpit, where Dean and Cas pilot this thing—except to get up there and see it yourself.  

Tendo Choi trails you with a tablet, taking notes on the repairs. He’s letting you lead, which is cool of him, because shit—he knows more about Jaeger Tech than anyone. In the elevator up to the Conn-Pod, you lean against a side rail, watching him scribble. His clothes are in various states of damp and damper from his stint outside. Even his bowtie droops. “Dude,” you say, “you oughta get into something dry.”

He glances over without lowering his tablet. “Pot to the kettle, Chief.” 

You look down. The navy blue, standard-reg jumpsuit hangs all heavy on your body. “They weren’t shitting us about an early monsoon season.”

“Nosiree, they were not.” Tendo dots an i, then lowers the tablet, looking you over. “Tell you what. After we secure the Conn-Pod, I can take over from there. You beat to quarters, get into something dry, and drop in on your pilots.”

_Your pilots_.   

You’re _Mary_ ’s Chief; of course Dean and Cas are your pilots. Still makes you warm and fuzzy every time someone says it. “C’mon, man. I can’t, I got a million things—” 

“Yes, you can. Lemme cover for you.” Tendo taps the side of his nose with his stylus. “We’re gonna get _Mary_ back up and running, but your boys took a beating out there. Fixing that Jaeger won’t mean a thing if her pilots are too spooked to drive.”

You consider this. “Good point. But—”

He smirks. “Don’t make me order you.”

You grin. “You pulling rank on me, Choi?” 

“Not yet.” The elevator doors roll open. “C’mon.” 

The Conn-Pod interior is the size of a studio apartment, two harnesses dangling in the middle. When they’re here, it’s Dean on the left, Cas on the right. When _Mary_ ’s in motion, the floor grating falls away to make room for them to move. In combat, the overhead lights will be off, dark except for the Heads-Up Display, and the windshield beyond that.

It almost feels like home, this cockpit. Since you nabbed the role of Chief, you’ve gone from Sydney to Vancouver and back to Sydney, and now Hong Kong, but in here, nothing's changed. You know how to toggle every control panel; you can translate reams of info from every screen. You fix things when they break, and damn, with the beatings this Jaeger takes, things break constantly.

You and Tendo power up the HUD, making sure everything electrical is still running, that the diagnostics check out, and that there aren’t any shorts. And _whew_ , yep—for now, anyway, everything’s working just fine, so Tendo all but herds you out of the Conn-Pod. “Scram, Chief.”

Back in the elevator, you put your hands on your hips, thinking. Your jumpsuit’s not _that_ damp. Not anymore. Besides, you still haven’t heard the verdict on Cas. “Nope,” you decide aloud. “Med bay.” You jam a new button, with the floor marker outlined in red. “Check on your pilots.”

Med bay is weirdly calm. After the thronging calamity of H-Deck, you expected more people. But nope—to your knowledge, Cas is the only one on Shatterdome grounds who got his ass kicked in the last hour.  

At least, the only one who got his ass kicked and lived to tell about it.

A wave of nausea rolls through you. Jesus Christ. There’s three Jaegers left in the whole god damn world, and no end to the Kaiju in sight. And if Cas can’t drive—if Cas—no, he’s fine. He _said_ he’s fine. He’s going to be—   

Dean’s sitting in one of the chairs outside a set of double doors, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His drive suit’s still on, but pushed down around his waist. His gray tee beneath it is patchy with drying sweat, his dog tags swaying, catching in the awful overhead light. 

He glances up at the sound of your footsteps, and instantly his shoulders loosen. “Hey,” he says, and it cracks. He gets to his feet to meet you. “You’re back.” 

“I’m back.” And trying not to notice how broad his shoulders are, how they arrow down to that trim waist. You’ve pulled up close enough that your eyes catch on the the silver-gray strands of stubble in his jaw, in his hair. It’s just as devastating now as when you first noticed. Years ago, at this point. “What’s the story with Cas?”

Dean braces a hand on his hip and runs the other over his face. “Minor concussion. But his right arm’s broken in two places.”

Shit. Oh, _shit._

Dean doesn’t have to say it for you to hear it: _Cas can’t drive_.

You breathe, “Seriously?”  

The overhead speaker system whines, then crackles. “ _RANGER WINCHESTER, PLEASE REPORT TO LOCCENT.”_  

Dean hangs his head. “Damn it.”

Your heart’s racing. _Cas can’t drive their Jaeger. How the hell_. . .? You gulp. “I can stay here with him.”

“Nah,” says Dean. “Gonna be awhile yet. They’re taking more X-rays before they get him in a cast. But. You know what. . . “ He looks at you sideways. “If you got a minute, I wouldn’t mind the backup up there.” 

Your heart warms. “Sure.”

LOCCENT—Localized Command Center, the Shatterdome’s equivalent of a wheelhouse—is bustling as usual, but across the room, Herc Hansen catches your eye and waves you over. His other arm rests in a sling, held close against his civvies. 

You and Dean beeline for him, and the closer Herc gets, the better you can see the sharp cut on his forehead and the butterfly bandage holding it shut. Your heart skips; it looks like it _hurts_. Herc’s the second highest-ranking officer in the ‘dome, plus one of _Striker’s_ pilots (and they hold the current record for most Kaiju kills), but getting beat up in the Conn-Pod always leaves rangers shaken. 

“Herc, hey.” You slip in close, reaching for him. “I didn't know—” 

Aaand then it hits you: you don’t get to do this casual intimacy with him anymore. 

Your face flames hot; you drop your arm. _Shit_. 

The two of you only broke up a few months ago. Yesterday was the first time you saw him since it happened, and before that, you’d been dating his freckled ass for almost three years.

The breakup—it was mutual. Hell, it was _friendly_. 

Still a breakup. 

Herc covers for you. “I’ll be all right.” He thumps your shoulder, reassuring. Overcompensatingly platonic. “Just did something stupid. _Really_ stupid.”

“Sounds like you and Cas were on the same page, there,” Dean teases. He and Herc have always been broskis. 

Herc winces. “Didn’t get it bad as he did, from what I hear.” 

You don’t see a cast on Herc, but. . . “Can you still jockey?”

His mouth sets in a grim line. “Not what we’re here to talk about.” 

You blink at him, forcing back more fear. “Herc.” 

He just nods toward the corner of LOCCENT. “C’mon. Marshal wants a word.” 

Marshal Stacker Pentecost is going over videos of the fight with one of the techs, but straightens up at Herc’s greeting. You and Dean straighten up, too, automatic. Shoulders back. Hash tag respect. “Chief,” says Pentecost. “Ranger. What’s the latest on your co-pilot?”

“Right arm’s broken in two places.” Dean’s quiet. “Minor concussion. They’ve grounded him.”

“Damn it,” Pentecost mutters. He and Herc trade important, people-in-charge glances. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to wait for him to heal. Ranger, we’ll need to pull candidates from your compatibility roster, then get the both of you in a simulator as soon as possible.” 

Your heart lurches. Then it picks back up, double-speed. 

Dean can’t—the things he’s seen, his entire life as a hunter—he can’t drift with some random jock from J-Tech. Scary as the Kaiju are, they probably got nothing on forty years in Hell. And knowing that Hell actually exists in the first place. As do demons. And ghouls. And vampires and—a thousand other things. If some total stranger gets a load of that. . . 

Dean’s on the same page. He croaks, “Sir?”

“After the systems shutdown failure this morning during _Gipsy’s_ test run. . .” The Marshal’s flat gaze dares either of you to comment on _that_. “I won’t risk a live trial with _Mary_. You’ll start in the simulator.”  

“But that’s not.” Dean gulps. “Sir. Cas, he—” 

“My experts tell me it may be less than a day until the next attack.” The Marshal links his hands behind his back. “We cannot afford to lose more time. Report to the simulator at oh-300.”

No. No, _fuck_.

Dean’s chest rises and falls. “I can’t have somebody I don't know in my head. Not for this bomb run.”

“I agree.” You find your voice. “We have no idea whether those candidates— ”

Pentecost says, “Listen. Both of you. I understand your concern. But these aren't just trigger-happy nobodies J-Tech dug up as a training exercise. These candidates align with Ranger Winchester’s profile parameters between eighty and ninety percent. They’ll get the job done.” 

You send a desperate glance at Herc. He, of all people, should get why this is a bad idea. Fortunately, he hears your SOS loud and clear. He says, “Marshal, there is an alternative.”

Pentecost looks at Herc, unamused. Waiting. 

Herc says, “Dean’s brother. Sam. His division arrived in Hong Kong last week—” 

“No.” Dean ducks his head. “‘Preciate the thought, but. Sam can’t even watch those fights after the fact. He won’t do it. Marshal, I can’t—this point in the game, here, when we got so much riding on the line—I _can’t_ just trust someone who doesn’t know me. Who’s never faced these kinds of. . .” He trails off. His throat bobs uncertainly, then he looks at you. His brows slant upward into a desperate angle. 

Oh. 

Oh, _shit_. Holy god damn— 

Quietly, Dean says, “Chief?”

Marshal Pentecost says, “ _No.”_

Dean ignores him, eyes locked on yours.

Your insides churn in a thrilled rush. Dean’s asking you to be his copilot. _Dean’s asking you to be his—_ holy living hell, you could do it, too. You know that Jaeger like you know your own heart. You’ve fought side-by-side with Dean more times than you can count. For more than one apocalypse.

This is it. This is the answer. You hold Dean’s uncertain gaze and set your jaw, lifting your chin just a little. He oughta know that look; you’ve shared it enough times, on enough hunts. When you can’t say it out loud, it gets the point across: _Let’s do this._

Dean’s brow settles and his shoulders square up. He says, “When’s the last time you were in a sim.” 

He knows you gotta climb into a simulator solo, every single week, to see how _Hail Mary’s_ running. He’s just asking so the Marshal can hear. “Monday.” Your voice scrapes; you clear your throat. “Weekly systems check.”

A vein’s about to pop on the side of the Marshal’s head, but Dean plows on: “And your score?”

“Since they recalibrated the software for the Category IIIs and IVs?” You link your hands behind your back like Pentecost, desperate for something to hold onto. Your record of fake Kaiju kills isn’t perfect, but it never had to be. “Hundred and ten drops. Sixty-eight kills.”

“Out of the question,” Pentecost snaps. 

“She knows all our attack formations.” Dean’s rocking a dead calm that looks damn good. “All our call signs and code words. She’s been with us since day _one_. She knows every inch of that Jaeger.”  

“The Chief cannot direct operations on her Jaeger from _inside her Jaeger_ ,” hisses Pentecost.

“Miss Mori did it just fine an hour ago,” says Dean, all innocence. “You playing favorites with your adopted daughter, Marshal?”

_Daaamn_. Even Herc lifts an eyebrow at that.

Pentecost’s eyes flash. “Ranger,” he says coldly, “I will remind you that, critical as you are to this mission, you are still bound to this program and to my judgment. Insulting it is not likely to turn the tide of my favor. And I will _also_ remind you that you haven’t even _asked_ your Chief of J-Tech if she’ll ride with you on what’s looking increasingly likely to be a one-way trip.”  

 _That_ wipes the smugness off Dean’s face.  

Yours, too.

Fuck, even Pentecost knows people aren’t coming back from this mission. Not that that’s a surprise, now that you’ve lost the Kaidanovskys _and_ the Weis. But to hear it so bluntly— 

Dean says your name in a haunted rasp of sound, turned up at the end. 

“Yeah.” Your own voice isn’t much better. “'Course I’ll do it.”

Man, Pentecost really might pop a vein. “Oh-300 at the simulators,” he says. “ _Do not be late_."

“Yes, sir,” you and Dean say at once. 

The Marshal strides past you both, leaving a grim-eyed Herc behind. 

The last few weeks, as this whole bomb run plan came together, you’d perfected a hell of a lot of self-delusion about the implied mortality of the trip. Dean and Cas were going to come back from it, because they always come back from their missions. Always.  

But now that it’s Dean and you. . .  

Also? Holy shit, you’re gonna have to drift with Dean. The second you connect, Dean’s gonna get every moment of your on-again, off-again, decade-long crush. Every time you thought of them while in someone else’s arms, while in _Herc’s_ arms, every time you whispered their names in the dark of your own room, trying again and again to give up on them. There’s too much to hide. It’s woven so completely into your life the you have no idea how to separate it. 

Fuck. Shitting, fucking fuckballs.

Dean says, sort of hollow, “I, ah. I oughta go tell Cas.”

Somehow you make your voice work. “I gotta let Tendo know. And. And the crew.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s already turning. Avoiding your gaze. “See you down there, okay.” 

Suddenly you’re alone with Herc. 

Awk-ward. 

Herc’s fingers drum at the end of his sling. “Are you all right?”

“Never better.” You haul in a deep breath. “Hey—thanks, by the way. For suggesting Sam. Quick thinking.” 

Herc lowers his voice. “We’ve got enough monsters to face as it is.” 

You rub your temples. “Man. Never thought I’d miss hunting god damn rugarus. Cake walk, compared to this.” 

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Been hankering for a decent salt and burn, myself.”

Sometimes it’s easy to remember why you two worked as well as you did.  

“Maybe, when this is over. . .” His eyes shine. “Gotta be a rugaru out there with your name on it.”  

“Fingers crossed,” you agree. You try to smile back. “Thanks, Herc.” 

“Go on,” he says. “I won’t keep you.”

Tendo doesn’t even flinch at the news. “Good,” he says. “Nobody knows that Jaeger like you. Nobody knows your pilots like you, either. They made the right call.” 

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline. “Is that it?”

He grins. “What, you want ticker tape and a medal?” He claps you on the shoulder as he goes by. “I’ll spread the word. See you at the simulators.”

Okay, then.

You head for _Mary_ ’s crew quarters. You need—you don’t know what you need. A second alone in your quarters, maybe, to force down the pending panic. Clothes that aren’t damp.

Why can’t you tell which is worse: revealing your secret to Dean, or riding off to the end of the world? 

“Get a _grip_ ,”  you mutter, rounding a corner. “He’ll probably think it’s _funny_.” You jangle your keys out of your pocket. “He’ll be all, ‘ _thanks for that laugh, kiddo, I really needed’_ —gah!” 

You nearly run right into him. 

“Whoa—Chief! Hey.” Dean’s broad hands wrap around your arms, steadying you both at the bottom step of his and Cas’ rooms. For a second, his eyes meet yours, and in them, there’s that same desperation from earlier. Then he drops his hands, fast, and looks away. “I was hoping you’d—uh.” He takes a breath. “Listen.”

“Sure.”

“You know you don’t have to do this, right.” He’s standing close enough to catch a glorious whiff of the hair stuff he uses. Hair stuff and rain.  

You were _just_ trying to get a grip, here. “Yeah. I know.”

“The Marshal’s right. We don’t know if this trip is even—”

“Are you trying to get me to back out?”

His eyes come back to yours. “Hell yes, I’m trying to get you to back out. I got no idea if we’re coming back from this mission. I—”

“So, what, it’s okay if you and Cas die at the bottom of the ocean, but—”

“I’d rather you _both_ make it.” He swoops in even closer, startling you into a step back. “If it means both of you get to make it out of this, then fine—I’ll take whoever Pentecost gives me.”

Always with the frakking martyrdom, this guy. You can’t believe you’ve fallen so hard for somebody so gat-damn _stubborn_. “Dean. C’mon, man. You said it yourself: nobody in this ‘dome knows that Jaeger like I do. And besides—we were fighting ghouls in Sydney just _weeks_ ago. If anybody can make it back from this mission, it’s the two of us." 

Muscles twitch in his jaw; he looks away. But he comes back with more ammo. “And what about—what about the drift, huh.”

_They’re gonna find out_. _They’re gonna know everything_. “What _about_ the drift.”

He can barely look at you. _Ack_. Does he already know the way you feel? 

You rush ahead. “Hey, man. I got baggage too. Not quite on your level, I’ll give you that. But. . .” Oh, _boy_ , this is gonna end bad. You grit your teeth. “It doesn’t matter what my damage is. Or yours. Or Cas’. But some random flyboy from that compatibility list? They’re gonna have a meltdown in realtime if they see the shit you guys’ve been through.”  

Dean purses his lips. “Yeah, you. You might right about that one.”

“I’m gonna do this,” you insist. “I _choose_ to do this with you.” Gulp. “We’ll deal with the rest when we get to it.” 

He manages a smile. “Yeah. We always do, don’t we.”

“Damn right we do.”

He’s studying you now like he might say something. Like he might— 

You blurt, “How’s Cas?”

Dean visibly takes a sec to recalibrate, but he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, at their quarters. “Better. Just got back, actually.” 

Has Cas been listening in? “Oh, good. What’s, ah. What’s he think about all this?”

He glances back toward the door. “Oughta ask him.” He claps your shoulder. Like Herc did earlier. “See you down there, all right." 

When Cas pulls the hatch open, your first thought is that he looks so _tired_. They always do, after they get hurt. Shadows dip beneath his eyes, and the scraggly ( _hot_ ) length of his stubble suggests that he’s been awake way too long. Everyone has. It’s—what the hell time is it, if Pentecost wants you at the simulators at three in the morning? 

Cas smiles the instant he sees you, though, and it warms his whole face. His drive suit’s around his hips like Dean’s was, but his right arm hangs at his waist in a sling. At his temple, a butterfly bandage holds a gash together. “Hello.” He nods toward the inside of their quarters, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

You slip past him. It’s cozy in here, despite the grim, weathered walls. A lamp glows on the concrete block of a nightstand, beside the two metal-framed twin beds that Dean literally welded together to make something approaching a king-size. Dean’s got a stack of old photos on the desk and a string of newer ones draped along the wall. Books—both Dean’s and Cas’—sit in piles all over the room. They’re lucky; their quarters are some of the only ones in the entire ‘dome that have a window. It runs the length of the far wall, face-height, but it’s barely a foot tall. Still—outside you can see a bit of the bay, and some of the lights from the distant shipyard. Smoke rises from out in the city. Slow-moving lights of helicopters sweep the area as they survey the damage. 

The hatch closes; Cas hangs onto the crank with his good hand, looking at you with sad, solemn eyes.

You stuff your hands in your pockets. “How you feeling?” 

“I’m fine. Dean told me.”

Right to business, then. “And?”

“If I could talk you out of it, I would.” His hand drifts off the crank; he comes closer. “I fear for you. But I can’t think of anyone more likely to get you both home safely. You’re the perfect candidate.” 

“Cas.” You nearly sag with relief.

“I mean it,” he says. “You two—you’ve always made a good team.”

“Dude, all three of us have.”

“But in current context. . .” He draws his lower lip into his mouth, then releases it. It looks soft. 

Your mind flashes with familiar fantasies: his mouth opening deep between your legs, the plush curve of his lips where you’d feel them in electrifying detail. How you’ve thought about it happening in the bed that’s currently like, five feet away from you. 

You grit your teeth. “Thanks. I’m just. . .”

“Nervous.” 

“Yeah. About the mission, and, ah. . .”

“Drifting.”

Damn him, he’s always had a sixth sense even without his grace. “Bingo.”

“It’s disconcerting at first,” he says. “No way around it except through it. But Dean will help you. He—he’s good at that. Taking care of people.” He smiles, but it just seems sort of lost.

“Cas.” You step closer, and touch his good arm. “You okay?”

Cas looks at you like. . . what the _hell_ is that look. It’s almost pleading. His voice wavers. “There’s things—you might see, that I. . .”

Great. “Dean said the same thing,” you mutter. “As though I don’t have shit I’d rather keep on lock.” 

“It’s just. . .” Yeah, that’s definitely pleading in his voice.

“Is it that bad?” They’re starting to make you nervous. Or relieved? Maybe if they’ve got some seriously gnarly shit, your lame, angsty crush will pale in comparison. “You could just tell me, y’know.”

“True. I could.” Cas’ brows lift and lower in wry consideration. The _but I won’t_ is implied. 

You glance at the door. “I, ah. I oughta. . .” 

“Right. Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Um. Come back and see me, when it’s done?”

He wouldn’t ask you to come back if it was that bad. Would he? “Yeah, of course.”

He watches you go like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you.

 

* * *

 

They get you a drive suit. They clank on the armor plating, too, even though it’s just a test run. All the years you’ve seen Dean and Cas wear their gear, and you had no idea how lightweight it is. 

Every crew has a different look. _Mary_ ’s has a heather-gray drivesuit with black plating overtop. _Striker_ ’s pilots, Herc and Chuck, have this dusty-olive setup that looks like they’re wearing old artillery tanks. _Gipsy’s_ drive suits are chic as hell—all black, PPDC-branded since they’re newer. You get the same thing, that all-black gear, since _Mary_ ’s never needed to stock extras in a different size.

Dean looks devastating when you meet him at the sim. Not like that’s news; he’s always swoon-worthy that getup. The dude looks like he’s gonna go jousting on a lightcycle.  

“This is some whack shit right here,” you say, shifting, getting used to the feel of the suit against your skin. 

“Looks good,” Dean says, and looks away—not soon enough to hide his smile. “For some whack shit.”

You grin. “Wow, thanks.”

“All pilots, to your marks. _”_ It’s Tendo on the mic on the other side of the smartglass. _“_ Repeat, all pilots, to your marks.” 

Here’s how this shit works: the simulator is built like a recording studio, with a tech crew and controls on one side of a window, and you and Dean on the other. In a minute, the lights will go off, _Mary_ ’s sim-HUD will come up, and they’ll project the battle simulation on the window. The physical control panels around you are identical copies of the ones in _Mary’s_ Conn-Pod; they can get switched out with any crew’s for more sim testing.

There’s practice harnesses, too, so that as you step into place, you actually have the weight of the mechanical arm and leg attachments that let you maneuver _Mary_ around.  

Your heart pounds as the lights start to lower. This is—fuck. Do this right, and you might save the world. But you still might lose Dean and Cas when Dean finds out about your gross-ass crush. Like, _Jesus_. Who does that to their friends? Who—what kind of person can’t move on after so long? 

A techie is helping fit Dean into the arm controls. Dean’s helmet is on, but his eyes have locked on yours, shining and a little wide in the internal headlights. Like he’s nervous—maybe as much as you. But _why_? “Chief, you with me?”

Lord, always. “Yeah.” You gulp. There’s a techie at your side, too, and she helps you fit a helmet over your head—standard for two-or-three person sims, since it’s the thing that’s gonna let you drift. “Any tips, here?”

“Besides ‘don’t chase the R.A.B.I.T.?’” Random-Access Brain Impulse Triggers, he means. Memories. He’s warning you not to follow them down so far you lose the here and now. “Um.” He licks his lips. “First few seconds are the toughest, before you reel it in. But just let it all go by. You’re gonna wanna look at them—but just let ‘em go past. That make sense?” 

Nope. “Kinda?”   

“On my mark,” says Tendo. The techies are stepping away. “Counting down to neural handshake in ten. . . nine. . .”

The glass partition darkens so you can’t see Tendo and the control room. Then the whole thing illuminates with a fake windshield that looks out over the sim-version of Victoria Harbor. It’s pretty, but it does nothing for your stupid, traitorously trembly body.

“Chief,” Dean says. _Five…four…_ “You’re allowed to breathe, y’know.”

You didn’t even realize you weren’t. “Totally overrated, if you ask m—” 

A rush of flaming, swirling blue floods your vision, then _yanks_ you backwards into your own mind. A tangle of color and sound follow, rushing up and splashing memories and half-forgotten moments back across your wide-open eyes, and you’re totally gone, you’re lost in it, you’re— 

_—freaking the fuck out in front of Pentecost and Herc because no, Dean can’t drift with some random jock from J-Tech; the Kaiju might be scary but they’ve got nothing on forty years in Hell, and knowing that Hell actually—_

_—still shines bright beneath decades of blood and smoke and fear and shame and guilt, so gone he doesn’t see you until you catch his wrist on the razor’s next downstroke and that weary soul flickers with—_

_—sick, helpless rage. “Dean, dad—let me go,” says the note. It crumples in your shaking fist as you gulp back panic. Run. Run, now, or you’ll never hear the end of it. Get your ass to the nearest dive, hustle up a fistful of bills, hotwire a car, and find a case halfway across the country. Hell, in Stanford. Anywhere this shitstorm can blow over without you here. But nope—outside, over the hum of the neon sign, you hear the car door cre-eak-_ snap _shut. Son of a bitch. Can’t fool your old man anymore, or you’d try lying. Even if it worked, this ain’t the kind of shit you can hide for more than a few days. Sooner or later, dad’s gonna figure out Sam bailed, permanently, on your watch. Might as well face it like a man. This time, though, you’re angry enough—betrayed enough—that you might put your damn dukes up when he—_

_—collides with you, throwing her arms around you. She’s—she’s pleased to see you, then. She doesn’t think your self-imposed sentence in Purgatory was cut too short. “Holy shit,_ Cas _,” she says, and clings tighter. Bewildered (and delighted, too), you wrap your arms around her shoulders. Dean couldn’t manage more than a kind of numb shock when you returned, until you found the truth, the depth, of his trauma. But she’s just. . . happy. When she pulls back to look up at you, her eyes are shining and damp, her smile wide and bashful. Surprised, you sweep a thumb across her cheek, catching a tear—and she pulls away, embarrassed. “Ugh, Jesus. Sorry. I’m cool, it’s just—really good to see you.” She’s clearly not “cool,” though. She’s still sniffling._ Humans. _Always hiding their emotions. Why? “Can’t believe you’re back, man.” As if to make sure you’re real, she touches your shoulder, the knot of your tie. It reminds you of Dean, years ago, that time he—what did he say? “When humans want something really, really bad. . . we—_

_—lie about how it’s totally cool,_ wow _, you are_ so happy _for them, it’s about_ damn time _, wow_. _You don’t feel it, but you should. Crying out loud, they’re your_ friends _. You gotta get over this. Plenty of people hook up after they drift. Dean and Cas have been circling each other since the beginning, anyway; there was never any room for you, and it’s your own damn fault you didn’t see that. Just look how happy they are, without you—_

_No._ You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clenching in panic. Think of anything else— _anything_ else besides _them_ , any _body_ else, maybe— 

— _Herc’s biting a bruise into your shoulder, hips snapping against the back of your thighs, rough and sloppy because that fight was terrifying and you both need this; he and Chuck walked away fine, but Dean and Cas nearly—god, and Dean’s voice on the mic, the rough, broken cadence of it—he called you “kid” for the first time in—what did he say again? “C’mon, kid, c’mon, just tell me when—tell me when, all right, c’mon,” and the way Cas followed up with that desperate, barely-there slip of your name—you stifle your shout and shudder around Herc, hiding the silent shape of Dean and Cas’ names in the pillow, guilt and guilt and more guilt—_

The cool blue haze spits you out and you _slam_ backward in your harness before righting yourself on wobbly legs. Your heart’s pounding but your vision is clear and you’re blinking at the control panels and oh-fucking-yeah, you’re mid-sim, and on the other side of that smartglass there’s a team of people just waiting for you to fuck this up, and—

Dean’s staring at you. The monitor ticks in your peripheral—exactly three seconds have passed—but he’s just staring, dumbstruck. He’s beside you but you can see _yourself_ , see through his eyes, your own wide ones staring back, and you can feel his—god, it hits you, his emotions that your mind shapes into his voice: _—so fucking hot in that suit but she’ll never forgive me once she finds out how we feel she’ll hate me she’ll hate Cas she’ll never speak to us again god damn it—_  

You’re gaping. _Did he just call me hot_?

Dean’s parted lips close, his shoulders rising and falling—he’s _panting_. His emotions roil back up, questions and confusion that once again form his voice: _Yeah. Wait—that memory—you, with Herc. You were thinking about. . . me?_ And _Cas—both of us—?_

Fuck. Fuck, shit,  _hell._ _I'm sorry. Dean, fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't—_

_No, no, no, don't—it's—_ H is eyes shut. The blue haze wells up again.

You blink at the HUD, forcing yourself to ignore whatever memory Dean’s dredging up. Isn’t this exactly what you _aren’t_ supposed to do? Chasing the RABIT?

_Hey_ , comes a response. But not a response, a _feeling_. It’s wild as hell. _Been doing this for seven years. I won't let you get lost._

In your peripheral, his hand twitches. In the hazy-blue mist, he reaches for you through all that churning light. Uncertainty sparks across the connection, along with a breathless rush of hope. 

Fuck. Ah, fuck, you take his hand, and he pulls you directly into a memo— 

_—Really?_ Really _? Don’t be so damn needy, you just saw her earlier, she doesn’t want to see you, she’s had a long day, too, and besides, she and Herc are probably—but they might not be. Just go find her. One left turn and a right, and you’re there—oh. Okay, she—that’s her in Herc’s arms, and they are making out like it’s the end of the world. And it’s. God help you, it’s so—_ hot _—and they’re fumbling for the door handle. You must look totally sucker-punched, standing there staring like a dumbass, so you rally and let loose one loud wolf whistle before you keep walking like you never meant to stop in the first place, but they don’t even look up, and Jesus, you wish you weren’t so jealous, wish you weren't thinking of pressing her to the other side of that door yourself, tearing at her jumpsuit while she tears at your own—_

Oh, god. You remember that. Most if it, anyway.  _Dean_ was the one who whistled like that? And he—he was _jealous_? Thinking about doing those things to— _with_ you?

_Always_. He thinks it, shaped like a wince.  _Guilty_.

You don’t believe it. He— _What about Cas?_

_Lemme show you_. Dean pulls you directly into another memory, and when the colors focus— 

_”—tell me,” Cas growls against your ear, his wet hand jacking you slow and tight, “speak, Dean.” “Nnnnguh—wanna—want her so bad.” That’s so damn inadequate, but Cas knows what you mean. You want everything. Touches you don’t have to overthink. Strong coffee with a side of too many lore books, like back home. But this—hey, you’ll take this, too. “Want us both inside her, Cas, wanna—ugh, fuck. W-wanna make her feel. . .” “Like this?” Cas’ hand twists at the crown; liquid fire lashes through your belly. “Y-yeah, I—” “We’d take such good care of her, wouldn’t we.” “God yes—” “She’d come so beautifully. Imagine it, how she’d feel around you, how she’d let go—” “God,_ fuck _—”_

“Neural handshake at 100%.” Tendo’s leaning on the mic, just visible behind the lit glass. “You guys with us?”

Your heart’s thundering. Heat pounds between your legs, demands that you notice the aching emptiness that Dean and Cas apparently want to fill. Dean’s watching you, just as wide-eyed. Hoping it reaches him, you think, _Both of you—all this time?_

His eyes go a little desperate, a little longing. _All of it._

Holy shit. 

“Yeah.” Your voice cracks. “We’re with you, Tendo.” God, your pants feel tight. You _just_ got fitted for this drive suit, what in the hell—

The thought floats across the connection, mortified: _It’s, ah. That’s not you._

It’s _Dean_ —again, not words, but an emotion that shapes itself into the words.

You’re just staring in muted shock. He—he popped a stiffie in the middle of the sim. And _you_. . . can sorta feel it? 

“Wild, right?” says Tendo.

“Understatement,” you rasp.

“Well, look alive,” says Tendo. “Here comes your bogey.”

You look at Dean, now, and as he stares back, a rolodex of memories sift by in brief, blue-tinged flashes: countless fights side by side, back to back, with Cas, with Sam, taking down monsters and demons and everything in between. Cool, hyper-focused calm settles over you now the same way it does when you steady your grip on your blade or your gun. 

Dean’s approval washes over you, and so too do threads of arousal—and then the speakers in your helmet roar, dragging your attention away. 

Holy shit, you thought fights at Dean’s side were a trip before. Now, connected to him, seeing the way his mind works, the things he spots, even as he gets the same from you, literally just revels in how you think—your adrenaline’s churning, limbs practically weightless with the joy of a good fight. It surges through you, a complicated dance of mirrored motions and a multitude of commands tapped into the various screens around you. Your hands are steady, your mind is clear. You and Dean take the fake Kaiju down in eight minutes.

The lights come back on. On the other side of the glass partition, Tendo’s on his feet, one hand on his headphones. He’s grinning at you and Dean, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.” 

“It’s a new record,” says Marshal Pentecost, stepping forward into view; Dean’s surprise mingles with your own. Apparently the Marshal was here for the whole thing? “The fastest takedown yet of any new copilots in a simulator.”

Dean’s smugness glows against your heart like an ember. “Toldja we could do it.”

“Starting to get tired of hearing that,” Pentecost mutters. “But you’ve convinced me, both of you. Go stand by and get some rest. Mr. Choi assures me the repair of your Jaeger is well underway.”

“They’ll need a debrief,” says Tendo, “first drifts—”

“Not necessary,” says Dean. You feel his thudding heartbeat, his building urgency to get the _hell out of here_. Wait, nope, that’s you. God damn it. You try to rein it in, because you still don’t—this is still—but you’re already already picturing your hands tearing at the zip in Dean’s drive suit, or hauling Cas in with a fistful of shirt. “She’s,” Dean says, except it cracks in the middle, “she’s got all mine. Every debrief I ever got.”  

Pentecost gives the two of you a hard look.

You force your expression to go bored. “If I gotta sit through that damn PowerPoint instead of getting a nap, heads are gonna roll.”

“Fine,” says Pentecost. “Dismissed.”

Your arms are wobbling. Your entire body, wobbling. You yank your helmet off, and the connection severs, instantly putting you back in your own mind, with your own feelings. One of which is just, _instant_ panic, because holy shit—what if you misread everything? What if you were making up half that shit, what if—is that even possible? What if that fantasy he showed you was one of  _yours_ , repurposed and relived? God, there’s just no _way_ Dean and Cas reciprocate your feelings _that_ deeply, no matter what you saw.

Dean takes his helmet off, too, and he’s still panting. From the fight, you gotta assume. Not because of—of _anything_ else. 

The techs help get you out of the armor plating while you practically vibrate with nerves. The same gal who helped hook you up the first time now studies you with concern in her eyes, but wisely doesn’t say anything. “Thanks,” you manage on the way off the platform, and her nod seems to convey that she knows it’s for the de-armoring and silence both.

In the hallway, crew members pass, ignoring you. Out here, the world is still ending. Three broken Jaegers are still crawling with techs and specialists, racing the War Clock to get it all done before the next attack. Nobody gives a shit about what you just saw in that drift.

Nobody except Dean, anyway. And Cas. When you get to Cas.

Dean steps up to your side. Heat fills your cheeks as you avoid eye contact. He says, “So—”

“Cas,” you blurt, and shove your shaking hands in your pockets. _God_ , be cool about this. “He said I should, um. Come by after we finished up in there. And say hi.”

"Yeah, we—" Dean clears his throat. “Let’s do that.”

“Yeah?"

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move.  

His jaw bobs for a second before he says, “Freight elevator might be faster.”

You shiver. "Faster, huh."

"And emptier."

Arousal chases through your veins. “That. Is. A _great_ idea.” 

“Good. Okay.” He nods, jaw clenching. “Here we go.”

“Here we go,” you agree. 

Here you go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your ABSOLUTELY LOVELY comments on the first part! <3 Imma get to replying to those ASAP.
> 
> Here's the posting schedule for the next chaps:  
> Part 3: Saturday, May 26  
> Part 4: Saturday, June 2

 

 

**_January, 2025  
_** **_Hong Kong City_ **

 

The freight elevator doors rattle open, and you and Dean immediately startle back.

“Whoa,” says Dean. “We’ll get the next one.”

“No need!” Around a gigantic cart of. . . something, covered with a tarp, Dr. Hermann Gottlieb inches to the front of the elevator. He’s drowning in a giant green coat with a furred hood that he fights out of his eyes. “Plenty of room. Going up?”

“Uh.” You’re staring. “Yes?”

“Well.” Hermann gestures to the available space with his cane. “Come along, then.”

So much for a quickie.

Not that you thought Dean would—well, you don't know  _what_ he'd— _no_. Get your mind out of that drift, and get your ass on that elevator.

With dubious glances, you and Dean scoot on inside. The doors close inches from your face, and when the carriage lurches, it startles the equipment under the tarp.

You’ve always been a fan of Hermann's; he’s written so much Jaeger code, he probably knows more than Tendo. When he spent a year at the Sydney Shatterdome awhile back, the two of you got to be buds. You and Cas and Dean played poker with him a few times, and he quietly cleaned everybody the fuck out.

“Dude,” says Dean, twisting to look at the misshapen mass o'stuff. “The hell is all this?”

Hermann just grimaces. “A delusion of grandeur made physical.” 

You know that face. “One of Newt’s projects, huh.”

He gives you a long-suffering look. “Unfortunately.”

You don’t mind Hermann’s colleague. Newt Geizler has six Ph. Ds and better taste in music than most people you know. But Jesus, you get why he rubs people the wrong way. The guy’s a lot. Knows too much about Kaiju to do anything else, though.

“I’ve been tasked with taking this to him,” Hermann sighs. “He’s somewhere out in the city, and he’s got a—” He glances at the two of you, and his eyes narrow.

“Classified?” you guess.

Hermann ignores that, so yes. “Aren’t you two supposed to be down in the simulators?” 

“Just finished up,” Dean says. His shoulder brushes yours as the elevator pulls to a halt, and just that one touch sends sparks trailing along your skin. Oh, god. Elevator fantasies. Dean has a whole _stock_ of—

“Ah,” says Hermann, who’s apparently been staring at you both while you try hard not to look at one another. The doors are opening, though, and the startling noise of H-Deck gusts inside along with a spray of rain. Hermann takes the cart handle. “If you don’t mind,” he says, gesturing at the way forward.

Dean helps him haul it out; you gotta leave the elevator to let them do it. Hermann nods his thanks, then turns to the deck crew and the chopper that’s just starting up its propeller blades with an ear-splitting whine. 

You and Dean duck back inside the elevator, and he knocks the button for the crew’s floor. When the doors roll shut, silence presses around you. Gears grind; the carriage moves.

And then you’re alone. You’re alone with Dean for the first time since you stepped outta that sim.

You could— _he_ could—  

But he doesn’t say anything. He’s right next to you, practically shoulder to shoulder. Eight stories to go, and silence. Seven stories to go. Still nothing.

Your knees are wobbling again. You clear your throat. _Lemme explain_ , you want to say, or better yet: _so that drift was some bullshit, huh_ , but instead all you manage is a slightly broken-sounding, “Dean?”

“Yeah.” He breathes out hard. “Y’know what, how ‘bout we—” He reaches out and jams the STOP button; as the elevator lurches to a halt, he turns his body toward you. And oh, Christ, his _face_ —the longing there, the open want, absolutely shocking in its honesty—it roots you to the floor. He comes closer, then closer still, _all_ up in your space, until his big hands land on your hips and he’s— _he’s walking you back against the railing_. You let him. Jesus, do you let him, every move charged with memories of those blasted elevator fantasies. He’s probably found your own stash of similar ones, elevators or abandoned conference rooms or supply closets, him or Cas waiting until the doors close to just. . .

To just do this. That look, there, the one he’s pouring into you _right now_ , devouring you as his gaze rakes hungrily down the line of your body from so close. You’re staring at him the same way, heating at the realization that he _wants_ you to look. Arousal curls through you so hot and fast that it leaves you breathless. His hands land on the wall, either side of your shoulders, his body close enough to feel the warmth but just far enough not to touch. His nose nudges yours. He’s panting, so close to your mouth you can _taste him_ , and god, it’s _nice_. Intimate. His fringe tickles your hairline.

You’ve heard people don’t need words, after they drift. You’re starting to get why. But this is still new. This is. . . ”Dean.” Your voice cracks even on that one syllable.

“I can—” He pulls in a shaky breath. “I can back off.”

Your hands twist into the fabric of his drive suit, right at his ribs. “No.”

One flinch is all it would take to press your lips together. One twist of your hips, and they’d roll into his. He’d grind into you, _hard_. He’s thought about it, wanted to, for _years_ —such a simple move, but such an easy fantasy to pull up. Just the thought of him wanting it, keeping it to himself for so long, sends ripples of warmth up your body.

You whisper, “I tried to get past this. So many times, I—I _was_ past it. But you guys always. . .”

“Same with us.” His eyes search yours from so damn close, wide and bright. “We—the drift, I thought, when you found out about this. . . I thought we were gonna lose you.”

You weren’t there for his conversation with Cas an hour ago, but now you _have it_ thanks to the drift. ( _“This is the bed we’ve made,” Cas had murmured, trying not to sound devastated. “We risk losing the world if we don’t lie in it.”_

_“And if we lie in it. . .” Dean couldn’t look up. “We lose her.”_ )

He’s looking up now, at you, close enough to count freckles and the individual gray whiskers in his stubble. The shine just on the inside of his parted lower lip hovers so temptingly close.

“You have me,” you whisper. “You both do. Always did.”

“Dammit.” He closes his eyes. His hands clench against the wall. “We need to. Um. We should go find Cas.”

“Yeah.”

His forehead bumps yours. “Before we, uh.”

“Tear each other apart?”

“ _Yeah_." 

Your gloved hands creak in his suit. “You both wanna be inside me at once, huh.”

He groans, hoarse like he can’t help it. “ _Ungh_. For starters.”

“Fuck,” you pant, “Dean—I—I need—”

“Take it,” he groans, “god, take whatever you want—”

You push your hips against his and a harsh noise wrenches out of him; he presses you back against the wall with his entire solid, glorious body. You can _feel_ his hard-on through the drive suit, holy shit _._ You hitch your leg up to give him more access.

“ _God_ ,” he hisses, tight, and his hand curls around the outside of your thigh, draws it up over his hip so he can rock into you, and you gasp. His groan falls across your ear, hot and _dark_ , arousal raking against the entire span of your insides.

“Damn it,” you breathe, meeting his half-thrusts, the shape of him pressing deep between your legs. Your pulse pounds in that same deep place, just out of his reach. “ _Dean_.” 

He moans again. “I can’t, I, I don’t wanna stop, just wanna get you out of this _suit_ —” 

You’re going to pieces; he feels so good against you, his desperation and desire and his grip on you, holy _hell_ , the raw emotion of it, seeing so deeply into him while he saw so deeply into you, and he still wants you, still wants _this_ , it’s too much; you’re high on him and Cas, you need— “Please,” you gasp, “we should—Cas, we gotta—” 

“ _Yeah._ ” He’s panting, but somehow lets go of your leg, and as it slides down his body, you both gasp. His forehead presses against yours. “We’re—the sooner we get up there and tell Cas, the sooner we can freakin’. _Augh_. Pick this up right where we left off.” 

“Okay.” You grip the rail behind you. “Jesus, Dean.” 

“No shit.” He wrenches himself away to jam the STOP button again, setting the elevator back in motion. He adjusts his drive suit at the hips, wincing.

It’s an effort to not break into a full-on sprint through the hallway toward his room. This is the Shatterdome, after all. The people you pass—if Hermann knew, then _everyone_ knows that you and Dean had a practice drift. Sprinting toward Dean’s room afterward won’t send a great signal, especially since folks may think Cas is still holed up in med bay.

You know the steps to their quarters by heart, but with each one, it seems like you’ll never make it there. This is too impossible, too fucking wild. Your craziest fantasies, on their way to coming true. 

But nope. There’s the door, two down and one across from your own, which you sweep past without a second glance. Then it’s up the metal stairs, Dean reaching for—

The door groans open. Inside, Cas’ good hand rests on the interior crank. His mouth is pressed in a tight line. His entire body is a defeated line of worry.

“Hey,” Dean says, and Jesus fuck, it’s a sex voice; you can hear how hard he is just from the way his mouth wraps around the word. “Hey, Cas.”

This apparently doesn’t soothe Cas, but he stands aside to let you in.

Oh, boy, this room looks completely different now. Still cozy, but with Dean’s memories, it’s even _more_ cozy. God, the number of surfaces they’ve done it on, the number of surfaces they’ve done it on _while thinking about you—_

Cas pushes the slow, heavy hatch shut again, hesitating with his hand still on the crank. You and Dean are both facing him. Lord, it is _way_ quieter in here than the distant, echo-y activity of the hallway. You can actually hear your own heart pounding in your ears.

Cas gulps. Muscles flare and then fade along his jaw. “Well?”

You lick your lips, and Cas watches you do it, his wide eyes sinking into half a squint. “Okay,” you say. _Just channel Dean in the elevator. That worked._ Deep breath. With your gaze fixed on Cas’, you yank your gloves off and let them drop. “I’m, ah. You know what, I’m just gonna. . .” You cross the floor, balance your shaky hands on Cas’ (warm, broad, _solid_ ) shoulders, close your eyes, and tilt your mouth up to meet his. 

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

**_February, 2022  
_** **_Sydney_ **

 

Sooo. 

Second daaate.

_Don’t do it_ , you think giddily, as Herc Hansen walks you through the quiet, late-night hallway to your Shatterdome apartment. _Don’t you dare make a move on this dude who you have to work with, who just happens to be super sexy, and strong as hell, with those bright blue eyes that just stare down to your frickin’—_

“Welp.” You’ve got your keys out of your pocket, looking up at him. Herc’s eyes are shining, and he’s standing close. There’s a smile starting on his face that suggests he knows exactly what you’re trying not to do. You snort, totally called out. “Dammit,” you mutter, “Herc, you smug fuck—you coming in, or what?”

His grin just broadens. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Inside your room, Herc threads his fingers into your hair before he kisses you, _damn_ , and he’s fighting a grin the whole way through it. When he pulls you into his lap on the edge of the bed, he breaks off, hands smoothing up your arms. Which are looped around his neck. He murmurs, “How far are we taking this tonight?” 

You lick your lips. Put those cards on the table, girl. “Welp. I stashed a box of condoms in that nightstand, so. . .”

He _beams_ at you. “ _Did_ you, now.”

“Hey, man. What is it you’re always saying in those PSAs? ‘If you have a shot, you—’”

“Christ.” He ducks his head against your shoulder. “don’t quote those damn things.”

“C’mon.” You cradle his face, tilting him back up. “You look so good in them.”

One of his brows is up, but he’s smirking. “That so.”

“ _Yes_ ,” you insist happily, and start tugging up his shirt.

He peels it off over his head, and okay, the man is _ripped_. And those sexy freckles cover his shoulders, a dusting across the tops and on down his ( _stacked)_ chest, even over his—

His tattoo.

His— _holy shit_. His _anti-possession tattoo._ Just sitting there at the top of his right arm.

It’s a little more flowy than yours, more spindly, but—with a rough count, the same number of tailed flames, same breaks in the five-pointed star. Solid black. _Big._  

“I know,” he says as you gape soundlessly, “looks bloody Satanic, doesn’t it. Promise it isn’t.”

“Herc.” You’re panting now, and wrench your gaze back to his eyes. “You—oh my god. _Look_.” You pull your own shirt off. 

His eyes go wide as he finds your ink, practically a mirror image of his own. He looks up at you, all bright with recognition. Seeing you in a new light. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You— _you’re a hunter!_?”

“ _I’m_ a hunt—dude, _you’re_ a hunter!”

His hands come up, framing your face. “This can’t be real. I didn’t even—you— _how did we both_ —?”

You grip his wrists. “I have _no_ —please tell me I’m not dreaming this right now.”

“Look.” He twists, showing you the long, shallow scar that runs down his other shoulder. “Werewolf. Outside Melbourne.” 

You’re utterly breathless; you lift one arm, showing him the underside of it. “Rugaru. Uh—Rocky Mountain National Park.” 

He traces the mark, and heat dances along his touch. “Jesus,” he says again.

You were doing _so great_ at not thinking of Dean and Cas tonight, but, well. Needs must. “Do Dean and Cas know? About you?”

He blinks. “No?”

“They’re hunters, too. I mean, Dean is, but Cas is—” An angel, you almost say. But nope, that’s not your information to give. “—incidental, to the life,” you land on. “That’s how we know each other. That’s why we came up through the program together. We all peaced out of hunting at the same time so we could—well. Hunt something bigger.”

“And you are, aren’t you.” he says. “You damn well are.” 

“Doing our best.”

“My god.” He’s searching your eyes with newfound respect. There was already so much of that; you didn’t think it could get more intense. “You and I, we’ve got stories to trade.”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

He grins, forehead to forehead now. “Willing to bet you’d wait until later, though.”

“Nngh. Yep.” You scoot in on your knees, grinding yourself against him, and he _groans_. “We were, ah. Right in the middle of something, here.”

“Yes, we were.” He wraps his arms around your hips, and rolls you onto the bed. He climbs over you, grinning as he dips down for a kiss. “We were indeed.”

 

* * *

  

**_December, 2023  
_** **_Sydney_ **

 

Things are going to shit. 

You’re on the mic and while you’re always _close_ to the mic, you rarely needed to actually _get on_ the mic, but since _Striker_ ’s chief chose this fucking week to be out with pneumonia and since _Striker_ and _Mary_ are getting their own asses handed to them out there, it’s up to you to run engineering for both of them, shouting orders and pounding out code as fast as you can type. 

The 'dome’s Chief of J-Tech is helping you with _Striker_ , doing what she can. Marshal Whitcomb hangs back, watching the monitors and occasionally chiming in with strategy. LOCCENT buzzes around you as your eyes dart over the screens.

This Kaiju— _Burdener;_ Jesus fuck, K-science needs a better copy team—is tearing _Mary_ apart. 

You’re keeping your cool, darting between keyboards at _Mary_ ’s terminal, but inside you’re wild, screaming, thrashing panic. You want to curl up in a corner and let someone else take care of this until they can just _get home_ , you want to kick one of them out and get in the Conn-Pod yourself, since you know what to do.

“—rerouting the auxiliary power into that left arm; Dean, don’t you _dare_ try to fire that left-hand plasma cannon, the computer doesn’t know it’s missing yet and shit’s gonna start blowing up if you do—”

Dean and Cas cry out; on the monitors, you watch Burdener whip its heavy tail into _Mary,_ knocking her off her feet to crash into the shallows. You can feel it from _here_ , the way the ground rumbles harder, the monitors trembling on the desks. “ _Fuck!_ ” Dean shouts, garbled through the wires, furious and panicky, “Cas, get us—”

“I’m on it, I got it—”

You watch _Mary_ struggle back to one knee, water pouring off the hull while the Kaiju prowls back and forth a half-mile away. So far the fight’s taken place along mile five of the Miracle Mile, and if it gets any closer, shit’s going to get real. _Striker_ got thrown—legit picked up and hurled, a mile across the bay—so they’re dragging themselves back to the fight with a knee joint so out of alignment it’s nearly backwards. _Mary’_ s on her own, and she’s missing half an arm and hemorrhaging fuel and the fucking plasma cannon on the left is still powering up. 

“ _Stay there_ ,” you tell them, hoping they catch it in the midst of their own yelling. You grip the long end of the mic. “Just stay there, you’re more stable on the ground; let that bastard get to you first, cannon in the left arm’s at sixty-five percent and rising, just fucking _stay put, do you copy_!”

“Almost there!” Herc’s shouting down the channel. “A thousand meters and closing, _Mary_ , just hold on!”

“God damn it,” Dean’s growling, but they do stay put. The Kaiju throws its head back to roar as it paws the sea floor. Lining up to charge. “My arm’s friggin’ numb and we can’t do crap with this side; nothing’s responding—”

“Dean!” Cas is frantic, seeing what you are: Burdener about to charge them.

“—ports on the right won’t close; all our shit’s gonna fucking fry if water—”

“ _Dean_!” Cas’ voice _booms_ , even through the headset. “ _Help me aim_!”

“Okay okay _fuck_ I got it I got it—”

Damn it, Cas-the-human has always been a terrible shot, even with a gun the size of a city block, even with a target the size of a zip code. As the Kaiju finally does charge, it’s still a _moving_ target, and Dean’s always been better at lining up a shot when shit’s hitting the fan.

“Eighty-nine percent,” you warn, watching _Mary’s_ left hand shift, separate, and spin into the plasma cannon, starting to glow as it lifts, as Dean sights down the length of it at the Kaiju barreling their way, “almost there, just a second, just a fucking—ninety-five, don’t move—”

“C’mon, kid.” It’s Dean’s rough, broken voice; you can _hear_ his clenched jaw, “come on, come on, okay, just say the word—” 

Cas says something, too, but you get only half of it, a desperate, pleading noise that’s so unlike him—

Screens blink and bleep in front of you and you scream, “Hundredpercent _shootthemotherfucker SHOOT IT_ —”

You can’t even get up to see them until half an hour after they get back; you meant to be there but _Striker_ needs you to direct a bunch of bullshit to haul their broke ass out of the harbor. You know you should probably wait for them—well, wait for _Herc_ —but Dean’s been sent to the actual freaking med bay with his bum arm and Cas is probably with him, so the first chance you get, you take off at a jog.

When the elevator opens and spits you out into the med bay hall, Cas is pacing at the other end. He pauses to look up when you call out. And just—Jesus, the relief he melts into, the wide blue of his eyes, it hits you square in the chest. He’s striding toward you, drive suit pushed halfway down to his hips. When you’re almost there his arms open and you dang near jump into the hug; he picks you up with it, spinning you in a half-circle, burying his face in the collar of your jumpsuit. “Holy fuck,” you breathe, into the space between your arm and his neck. “ _Cas_.”

He hasn’t put you down. He holds and holds, and says your name in a soft, determined slip of sound. God, he’s warm, his shirt hot and tacky under your hands, and you could not give less of a damn. The number of pilots the PPDC has lost over the last few years—the death toll going up with every new attack—it’s a literal miracle these two made it back. 

When you finally loosen your grip, you end up sliding down the front of Cas’ body, which—yeah, all right. He grips your hands, apparently unable to let go, and you just let him. There’s nothing intimate about it. Except that _oh,_ there is, there is when his eyes meet yours, something desperate and clinging in his grip that you shove out of your mind immediately. “How’s Dean? His arm?” 

“Good. Better.” Cas’ voice is raw; they always sound like they’ve been screaming after they get back from missions. They have. “He’s got most of the feeling back in it, seems like it’ll be fine. Something about the way the circuits shorted must’ve shocked him.”

“Damn it.” You drop your hands at last, and wonder if you’re inventing the brief and stifled flare of disappointment you see in Cas’ eyes. “I tried to—dude, you remember. After that fiasco in Anchorage—I tried to put in failsafe breakers that’d stop that kind of crap before it got to the Conn-Pod.”

“And it _worked_.” Nearly ten years of being fully human, and Cas’ hot-blue stare hasn’t lost a shred of its intensity. “You saw the scars on that Becket boy. If you hadn’t put those breakers in, Dean would be as bad off or worse. But he’s fine.”

“Hey.”

You both turn; it’s Dean, heading out of med bay, exhausted but smiling. Like Cas, his drive suit is around his hips. He’s wearing a sling, but he hinges that whole arm out to the side. “Mostly for show,” he says, and his voice is raw and worn, too. “But you know. Some, not.” 

Cas has probably already hug-tackled the crap out of him the instant they were out of their harnesses, so you give yourself permission to turn toward Dean first. You both sort of bump into each other, your arms around his ribs and his good arm wrapping tight around your shoulders.

“Hey, Chief,” he says into your hair. “Knew you'd get us back in one piece.”

You burble a laugh, eyes threatening to water now, and pull back to brush at them. “I just yelled a lot,” you say, and Dean leaves his arm around your shoulders, keeping you tucked close at his side. “You guys did all the work.”

The elevator doors open at the end of the hall, and there’s Herc and Chuck both, still in their suits, Chuck cradling his left wrist to his chest.

You briefly squeeze Dean around his waist, then detach to walk toward the little ensemble. Chuck’s usual _don’t-fucking-touch-me_ expression melts for half a heartbeat as he reaches out to thump your shoulder when you go by. You don’t particularly _like_ each other, but you don’t think anyone really _likes_ Chuck Hansen. Respect, though? There’s plenty of that, flowing both ways. He stepped up as co-pilot when Herc’s brother got kicked out of the service, and he’s kicking ass.

Chuck calls out to Dean and Cas, which leaves you and Herc, who doesn’t stop, but just pulls you into his arms, thumping into you with an incredible, solid embrace against his barrel chest. “Jesus bleeding Christ,” he says in your ear, quiet and a little hoarse, swaying with you, “do you have. _Any_ idea. How incredible you are?”

Hercules Hansen, everybody.

“Hey.” You smile shakily up at him; _fuck_ , you’re glad he’s okay. “You’re the one who made it back with that mangled knee.” 

He tilts his forehead against yours, which surprises you—he’s not big on PDA. “Don’t be modest.”

And, surprising yourself, you mutter back, “Gimmie the chance, and I won’t be.”

He breathes out in a rush, and his big hands go to your waist, where they _grip_. Quietly, barely audible, he all but groans your name.

Whoa, yeah. Him in his drive suit, the checkerboard of six—soon to be seven—Kaiju heads on it, his quiet, intense need of you—yeah, you want to get naked, ASAP. “Damn it,” you whisper as the three pilots behind you keep talking; you wonder dimly if Dean and Cas are watching this dang scene you’re putting on. “I still gotta—I gotta brief my team and start getting the crew on shit, and I gotta cover for your chief, too." 

“And we’re all four of us going to need a mission debrief,” he mutters. “Hell.”

You reach up, settling a hand around the back of his neck. “We’ll make it worth the wait.”

And damn, does he ever. Hours later, you’ve managed to get dinner and get repairs underway and retrieve the mangled, ruined wreck of that right arm and even call a meeting with each of your heads of tech. Finally, _finally_ , you can trot back toward the living quarters, toward the pilot’s end, toward Herc. You have your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through the filthy texts he’s been sending you, detailing exactly how he’s going to take you apart. You’ve been sending the same manner right back, which means you are needy as hell when you round the corner and run right into him. 

“Fuck, hi,” you say quickly, “hi, I’m here, I’m done.” 

“Oh, thank Christ,” he says, and then he’s hoisting you into his arms and locking his wrists under your rear and he’s _carrying_ _you_ back to his room, tilting his chin up so he can kiss you, and _fuck fucking yes_ , you’ve got your hands in his hair as his mouth opens under yours. 

“Door,” he slurs, before thumping your back into it, and you laugh, groping for the crank even as he kisses you, presses all up against you, one hand spread broad on your ass and the other tracing the path of your thigh locked around his hip and you can feel him against you, eager, and then— 

A wolf whistle cuts through the noise of your frantic gasps. Both of you flinch, but neither of you let up; you just grin into him and turn the crank for the door and let it groan open. Herc kicks it closed, and you love the noise it makes as it _slams_ shut, the tumblers clanking into place.

Sex with Herc is always a riot; he’s hilarious and considerate and even sweet, but in the days after fights—god _damn_ , the man turns ravenous. Everything gets brutal, desperate, and heaven help you, you adore it. Tonight’s more selections from that menu; you spend what feels like forever—good forever, the grabby, desperate, wrenching kind—making out as he drags your regulation jumpsuit off and you pull that fucking henley over his head and get your hands all over as much freckled skin as you can reach.

Tonight—maybe it’s that you need it as hard as he does, that you think if you see a shred of emotion, you’ll shatter to pieces—you roll over and Herc pulls your hips up just a little before slipping into the slick, clutching heat of you, draping the length of his body over your back. He grips your hands, fingers threading together, keeping you in place and holding tight before he lets _loose_. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, cadence broken with the force of his thrusts, “Fuck, _yes_ , just like that, just like it.”

You’re shuddering beneath him, loving the warmth of him pressed overtop of you, how his knees keep your thighs apart as he nuzzles the back of your neck, bites the curve of your shoulder. “ _God_ ,” he rasps as he hits a good angle and you whimper, “that's it, c’mon— _come_ on—”

Completely against your permission, Dean’s voice on the comms comes back to you, all grating and growled and low— _c’mon, kid, come on, come on, okay, just say the word_ —

Fuck, and Cas, too—suddenly it hits you that the word you missed earlier was _your own name_ , a warning and plea both, as though he were about to—to— 

You come so hard you bury your shout in the pillow, thrusting back against Herc as your reaction drives him over the edge and he goes harder, deeper, groaning as the two of you strain into one another.

For a minute you just stay put, mind racing through a haze of shame. That’s the first time in a _long_ time you’ve had to hold yourself back from actually saying their names out loud during sex.

_Shit._

Herc’s kissing along your cheek, sweet and scruffy. “You all right?” 

“Yeah,” you pant, getting up to your elbows as he carefully pulls out, sits back. You twist around, trying to smile at him. “Yeah, just—fuck.” You reach up and he automatically leans his cheek into your palm. “Really glad you’re okay, man.”

“Well. Had to come back to this.” He leans forward, kisses your forehead. 

He's conked out soon after, spooned up behind you all warm and cozy. You should be out, too, considering how long today was even without Burdener interrupting everything. But nope. _Nope_ , your mind is too full of “ _C’mon, kid_ ,” imagining Dean saying it not all garbled down a comm line during a Kaiju attack, but instead, in his and Cas’ room, as he pulls you astride him. And you’re thinking of Cas’ soft mouth parting around your name, the only warning before he pulses warm and wet into your fist, or between your legs. Between Dean’s.

“ _Shit_ ,” you whisper. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**_November, 2024  
_** **_Sydney_ **

 

Honestly, it’s probably the friendliest breakup you’ve ever had. 

You’re both bummed as hell, but with _Hail Mary_ ’s team getting moved to Hong Kong, with Jaegers dropping left and right and their pilots not making it out alive, with the entire Jaeger program losing its funding. . . it’s too much. You don’t see each other for days on end, and when you do, you’re both too distracted to even cling to one another.

So you talk about it, together, in your packed-up little Sydney Shatterdome room. Herc holds you close to say goodbye, and it’s the first bit of tenderness you’ve exchanged in weeks. What’s worse is that its absence didn’t even bother you. Yeah. Yeah, breaking up is definitely the right thing to do.

Still sucks, though.

“You have been so good to me,” he murmurs. “Please, please keep in touch when you get to Hong Kong. I’m sure we’ll get there before long.”

“M’sure you will.” You cling tight. “Watch your back out there.”

“Always.” Herc kisses your temple, squeezes your hands. Then the hatch creaks open, creaks shut, and he’s gone.

You look around at the packed boxes, the now-blank spaces where your life in this city took root over the last few years. Everything is changing, and not in a fun, can’t-wait-to-see-what-happens-next way. “This sucks,” you say aloud.

Then, silencing your internal cynic (which claims it _knew_ you’d be this fucking desperate the second Herc left your life), you text Dean and Cas.

They show up minutes later with a stash of booze that, according to Dean, he’s been holding onto for years. “Pretty sure this is the last bourbon on the entire continent,” he says, passing it to you. He’s got his feet up on the desk; Cas is beside you, your backs against the headboard. You haven’t gotten to spend much time with them lately, but damn, two minutes in and it’s already just as comfortable as it’s always been. 

The bourbon burns on the way down, spiced and a little sweet. You haven’t tasted anything like it in years. “Damn,” you rasp, passing it to Cas now. His fingers brush over yours. You pretend not to notice. “That’s good stuff.” 

“Oh, I know.” Dean links his hands behind his head. Leaned back like that in the desk chair, his whole body is laid out like an invitation. He studies you with soft eyes. “So what happened.”

“Dean,” says Cas, a little warning.

“ _What_ ,” says Dean, gesturing with one whole hand. “She knows she doesn’t have to give me the juicy details if she doesn’t want to.”

“Ugh. I _wish_ there were juicy details.” You reach for the booze again; Cas passes it back. “Instead it’s just. . .” You take a swallow. They’re both watching you. “We just drifted apart, y’know. Too much shit going down. Realized this morning we haven’t even slept togeth—shush, Dean—” 

“I didn’t say _anything_.”

“You didn’t have to,” Cas teases.

“—I meant _actually sleeping_ ,” you continue, “y’know, with _Zzz_ s—point is, we hadn’t done that together in like. Weeks.” You rub one temple. “Actually—can’t remember the last time we did. Which was part of the problem. So. Since we’re about to head to Hong Kong. . . yeah. Figured it’s for the best.”

“I think you did the right thing.” Cas’ eyes are all big and thoughtful. “The way the world’s going—somehow I doubt you two would’ve found the time you need to reconnect.”

“Yeah.” You scooch down in your seat. “I mean, Herc was only ever a—” Wow, you _slam_ those brakes. “Um—I didn’t think it’d be much more than a couple-night sort of thing. Trust me, nobody was surprised as me when he kept coming back.”

“Ah, c’mon.” Dean reaches across the space with his boot to knock gently into your knee. “You have that effect on people.”

“I do _not_ ,” you insist, kicking at him right back. 

“We’re still here, aren’t we,” says Cas, and offers you the bourbon.

Your face warms. So does your heart. “Okay, fine. And hey—thanks, for this.” You heft the bottle. “And for coming over. I know you guys got shit to do.”

Cas smiles all gently. “You’re more important.”

“More fun, too,” Dean says, wry—and at the look on your face, “Yes, even when you get dumped.”

“Mutual,” you remind him. “There was no dump-er. Or dump-ee.”

“Well, whatever the case. . .” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “. . . how about a case?” He leans forward, offering you the phone.

You lean across Cas to take it, then thumb through the news article. Desecrated graves, desecrated corpses. Cemetery just outside the city limits. You shouldn’t smile, but. . . “Man. You really know how to cheer a girl up.”

Dean’s brows lift and lower. “Don’t gotta tell me.”

_Squee_.

“We thought we could have a look tomorrow night,” says Cas. “Head out after sundown.”

You squint at him. “Our flight to Hong Kong leaves the next morning, though." 

“Exactly,” says Dean, “and I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna sleep through most of it.”

You snort. “Yeah, all right. I’m in.”

“Golden,” says Dean. He and Cas trade crinkly-eyed smiles.

Your insides flutter pleasantly. 

_Oh, stop_ , you think, and distract yourself with another sip of booze. _They’re still as closed for business as ever. You being single isn’t gonna change that. Not in a zillion years._  

You hand the bottle back to Cas, and avoid watching as he lifts it to his lips.

 

*

*

*

 

**_January, 2025  
_** **_Hong Kong City_ **

 

Cas makes a wrecked, startled sound as your mouths connect, and oh _boy,_ it’s the softest mouth you have ever kissed in your entire life, and you have the sense-memory from Dean, sure, but here, feeling it actually fit against you, start to kiss you _ba_ — 

Cas locks his good hand in the crook of your arm and _wrenches_ back, stunned. “Wait a minute, _wait a minute_!”

You wait a minute. The way your limbs have locked in _now-you-fucked-up_ panic, there isn't much choice.

Cas gapes at you, then gapes past you at Dean, who’s still hovering just behind you. Whatever Cas sees there—his gaze comes back to yours and he makes a strangled, gorgeous noise of disbelief. Then he pulls you back against his body and kisses you. 

Hard.

A giddy, surprised squeak slips out of you. You laugh in its wake, fighting your grin and Cas’ to keep on kissing him. You slip your arms around his neck, and his hand slides around to your back, his palm broad and warm, soaking heat through the drive suit.

“Jesus,” Dean croaks.

You bring a hand down to curl it into Cas’ own shirt, right above his heart, where it pounds beneath your knuckles. God, you love him. You did before, but seeing him through Dean, seeing his true self, so close to what he shared with you but no way to get all of it except with a drift, to see how much he wanted to share, how much he wanted to be with you— 

Cas’ lips part and he licks carefully but impatiently along the seam of your mouth, and you whimper, accepting that steady and insistent push _in_. You tighten your hand in his shirt and tug, and he gets the picture, steers you back until your shoulders thump into the hatch. “Holy shit,” you gasp happily, “ _Yeah_.”

Cas plants his forehead against yours. “How—since _when_ —?”

“On and off,” you pant. Thank frick he put you against the door; your knees are toast. “But mostly always.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, and crowds in close at your left, Cas’ right. “Cas, everything we ever—she’s right there with us. The, the—vanilla shit and everything else.”

“Oh my god.” It’s starting to come to you, things you didn’t see but that you nevertheless just _have_ , the memories you can pull up that belong to them both. Your face flames as you flip through it all while Cas dips to press his mouth against the bolt of your jaw. It’s not just sex, not just the way they’d talk about you during it, but there’s. . . holy hell, there’s an entire back catalogue of things with safewords, safe hand gestures. Things that left bruises in the morning light, discovered on the way to interviews and photo shoots. You breathe, “I—holy shit, you guys, the Venn diagram of our kinks is a friggin’ circle.” 

“Noticed that.” Dean gulps. “But you, you got some stuff we hadn’t even thought about.”

“Such as?”

His brows lift and lower. “How ‘bout the one where Cas holds me down while you—”

“Oh my _god_.” You duck your head. “Yeah, okay.”

“She called that, by the way,” Dean tells Cas, all warm and low. “That you’re pitchin’ and I’m catchin’.”

Cas looks back at you, _delighted_. “What about that we switch, from time to time?”

“That, I kinda hope—uh, _assumed_ —no matter what.” You thunk your head back against the door. “Jesus, you guys.”

Cas’ hand smooths down your lower back, teasing at where your waistband would be if you weren’t in this drivesuit. “The two of you, did you. . . ”

“Have a quickie in the elevator up here?” you suggest. “Thought about it. But, uh.” You can barely look up, suddenly shy. You study the faint woven texture in Cas’ sling. “Haven’t even smooched the guy.” 

“We wanted to wait for you,” Dean explains.

Cas’ smile is _so hot_. You’ve never seen that smolder aimed at you. He murmurs, “You should fix that.” He glances up at Dean, and shifts to give him room.

Dean’s already close, but now he braces one arm above you, against the hatch. His lips are parted, his body slanted just barely away from yours. He rasps, “Listen. Guys, I. . . if we start this—I. M’not gonna wanna stop.” 

You swallow hard, letting those words shiver through you. “Me neither.” 

“Then we won’t,” Cas says. Simple as that. 

Dean breathes out, shaky. Then he starts pulling off his gloves.

Cas pulls down the zip in Dean’s suit; Dean shoves the whole thing down his shoulders and moves in, muscles curving softly beneath his tee, and his eyes just devour the sight of you from so close.

He doesn’t kiss your lips. He settles his bare fingertips along your jaw, a waterfall down against your neck, and then he kisses your cheek. He presses his mouth to the corner of your jaw, lingering, his shaky breathing in your ear. He kisses lower, beneath your ear, sensitive skin that electrifies with goosebumps as his stubble catches, pulls, around his soft mouth. “God,” he breathes, and follows it with your name, heart-wrenchingly desperate. 

You take his face in your hands, pulling him up. His mouth catches against yours almost on accident, and he makes a faint, relieved sound.

So does Cas. 

You surge up, kissing Dean with all your heart, arousal racing along your veins, bursting and forming and bursting again. His mouth works so gently against yours, with an eagerness you never would’ve guessed he was capable of if he hadn’t drifted with you. Jesus, you want to yank that drivesuit even further down his hips, but—is it too soon? Does he want you to? As his mouth opens, and his tongue delves gently against your own, the sparks roil up all at once. With a ridiculously needy gasp, you reach for Cas’ hand and bring it up to the zipper of your own drivesuit.

“Mmmfuck.” Dean pulls back just a little to mutter it. “Yeah—Cas—?”

The zipper dives, a slow purr all the way down. 

Cas starts tugging it off your shoulders; Dean helps from the other side. With your arms freed, your hands shake as you spread them over the softness of Dean’s warm tee, the shape of his pecs a glorious span beneath your fingertips. You glance at Cas, who’s wearing a light blue button-down shirt, and from the glimpse of golden skin at his throat, nothing beneath. You’re on him, unbuttoning, before you can talk yourself out of it.

Your instinct is to be self-conscious about the sounds you’re making, but they’re right there with you—eager little gasps, the wet pluck of mouths, kisses traded between one another, little gasps when someone discovers a sweet spot. Clothes _pat_ onto the floor; your drive suit hits your ankles but you don't have the room to step out of them. You're down to panties and a sports bra. Your bare knees wobble as Cas’ good hand traces up your thigh. He’s just wearing to boxers overtop that open shirt, and Dean’s in boxer-briefs, his undershirt warm against your side.

Cas tilts his forehead against yours, eyes closed, brows at an angle. “I want,” he says through his teeth, “I, if you let me—”

“Yep,” you pant. "This point I'm ready to let you do whatever the hell you want.”

His eyes open, heated blue searching your own. He ducks in with a long, tender kiss against your cheek. Then he goes to his knees. 

“Oh, boy,” you breathe, “yeah, okay, that’s. . .”

Cas’ hand smooths up your thigh, this time from below. Lord, his beautiful _face_. “All right?”

“This is. Mmm. Yep. Yes it is.”

“Need a better view,” Dean says. He slips closer, maneuvering so he’s behind you. He tugs you back against his chest, settling you into the circle of his arms from behind. He nuzzles the space beneath your ear, and settles his chin on your shoulder. “Yeah. That’s more like it.” 

Cas presses his mouth against the junction of your thigh, working his way over and in, his rough noises of pleasure vibrating against your skin. “Shit,” you breathe, winding one hand into his hair—so fucking thick and soft between your fingers, flowing through them. “Cas—”

“Mmh.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband your panties and tugs, and his eyes go _reverent_ as he takes in the sight of you, revealed. When he looks back up at you, it’s more than just arousal and desperation, it’s disbelief, it’s gratitude, that you’re letting him do this. See this much of you, in every sense of it. His fingers smooth gently up the soft inside of your thighs, and his chest rises and falls as he catches his breath.

“You got any idea how long he’s talked to me ‘bout this,” Dean murmurs against your neck. “Wanted to do this for you? Wanted it so bad he could taste you already?”

Cas’ eyes flicker away, like he’s embarrassed, and oh god—you get why, because you have those memories, Cas admitting it in breathless growls, wanting so badly to know what it would be like with you, because Dean loves using his mouth, going down on women because he’s damn good at it, he knows he is—

“Cas,” you whisper, “I want you to.” And, realizing now how much he loves hearing it: “Please.”

His eyes come back, and _yooo_ , the heat in them has _cranked up_. He wets his lips, surely an unconscious gesture. “Say it again.” 

“Ah, fuck.” You sag against Dean, the heat of his bare arms against the heat of your bare middle. “Cas, please. I, I need. . .”

“You do, don’t you.” His mouth returns to the top of your thigh, and he kisses over. _In_. Hovering close enough to feel the warmth, he murmurs, “Once more.”

“Jesus,” Dean groans, even as you close your eyes and gasp a way-too-desperate, “ _Please—”_

Cas’ lower lip tugs at the part in your folds; it’s barely anything and yet arousal lightning-arcs through you from that the soft point of contact, and you gasp for air as he plunges in deeper.

Your knees shake as he pulls back, but instead of looking smug as he should, he just looks. . . frustrated. “This’d be easier with both hands. Instead I just. . .” He lifts his one good hand from where it gripped your thigh. 

Dean’s chest rises and falls against your shoulder blades. “Lemme try somethin'.” His left hand slides down your belly, quivering beneath his touch all the way down until it slips between your legs. 

“Fuck.” You lurch against his touch, the exquisite gentleness—then Dean spreads his index and middle fingers, opening you wide.

Cool air rushes in against where you’re so damn wet you’re throbbing with it, and you gasp, hips jolting against Dean’s arm, but he keeps you there, dipping his mouth to your neck again. "That any better?”

“Much.” Cas’ voice is a rumble, and now you can feel that warmth _right_ where Dean has you spread open. You agree with a muffled whimper.

Cas strokes you with the curved joint of his thumb, then the pad of it, rolling your clit beneath it until your thighs shake and you can’t stop a whimper. Dean keeps you there, holds you up with one arm and holds you open with the other, breathing the hottest noises as he watches. And then Cas leans in, lips closing around your clit. He suckles, he uses sweet, soft brushes of tongue while he does. He works in circles; he works the same spot again and again. And _guh_ , you keep losing strokes of Cas’ tongue as it traces over Dean’s knuckles, too. “Fuck,” you pant, “you guys, I—I need—”

Cas _mmmh_ s against you and delves in with deeper, tighter circles, concentrated around your clit, and his fingertips slip on back, finding your entrance with an electrifying slip partway in and then out. He starts swirling them right there, right at your entrance. You moan at the feeling, utterly boneless from the rippling heat of arousal.

“Jesus.” Dean’s pressing behind you, now, grinding against you because you’re grinding back against him, the thickness pressing into your lower back. “ _Unh._ Knew he’d be good at this.”

Cas’ blue eyes flicker upward, all heat, and you tilt your head back against Dean’s shoulder, shuddering. Whimpering. Trying to angle your hips down so you can force his fingers up inside you. Cas just hums in delight and continues circling, tasting every twitch of your hips. 

“Please.” You close your eyes, hiding your face in Dean’s neck. Your other hand’s clenched on his wrist, tendons shifting beneath your fingers. “Please, Cas, please—c’mon, man—” 

Cas moans against you, a heat-soaked vibration, and slips his fingers deep inside you.

Your back arches; an indignant sound pours out of you against the hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean begins stroking slowly back and forth along your folds as Cas pistons slowly in and out of you, still working his lips and tongue against your clit, around the vee of Dean's fingers. “Fuck,” Dean pants, mouth at your temple, practically slurring, “god, _fuck_. C’mere, lemme—” He locks both hands around your wrists, one set of fingers hot and slick, and he tugs your hands up, and up, until they loop around the back of his neck. “Keep those there,” he says. His broad hands stroke down the undersides of your arms, the curves of your sports bra, down your exposed sides, until his fingers can slip back into place, holding you open, his other arm banding around your middle. His teeth close gently around your earlobe, and lips follow. “Let us take care ‘a you, huh.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Even with the sports bra, with your drive suit bunched around your ankles, you've never done anything this debauched in your whole friggin' life. You bury your fingers in Dean’s short hair and hang on tight. Dean, meanwhile, stops holding you open and starts rolling the pads of two fingers against and around your clit—slowly, gently; you're so wet you can _hear it_.

“Cas.” Your voice is a mess. You’re starting to feel a little dizzy, though whether from too much air or not enough, it’s anybody’s guess. “Could you—?”

He pulls back with a smug, hazy smile. His mouth and chin gleam. “You need more.”

“Y-yeah. I—”

Three fingers spread you wider and then retreat.

“Oh my _god_.” You turn your face to Dean’s neck again. “Jesus Christ, Cas, you _tease_.”

“He does that,” Dean says, and that’s when Cas plunges all three fingers inside of you and  _works them_ , fast, curling just a little with every slide back out. His knuckles start pulling sparks against a place inside you that twists tighter and hotter every time he goes by, and your body moves without your say-so, hips rolling, back arching, chasing more friction and avoiding it because you never want this to end, ever. You’re whimpering and trying so damn hard to keep some semblance of composure, but every single second brings a new flash of arousal.

“God.” Your thighs shake on either side of Cas’ jaw, a rough, delicious burn and scrape. “Cas—please—don’t stop—Dean—”

“I gotcha,” Dean says, keeping his fingers rolling over your clit, “not gonna stop, okay, neither one of us. Take your time, all right, just ride it out. Just feel it.”

Heat surges up inside you, a wave of pleasure that Cas works to a frenzy, the slick raw sounds of his fingers fucking into you only intensifying as you meet those wide, dark blue eyes, _years_ of need finally open, on display, for _you_. There. _There_ , fuck—you moan, tilting your head back again as you close your eyes and come _hard_ , belly clenching, walls shivering around Cas’s deep, even, just-enough strokes.

Cas slows his pace; Dean slows his touch, and they bring you down together, bolts of heat still making you twitch with aftershocks. “Fuck.” It sounds more like _fughh._ You untwist your hands from Dean’s hair, and take Cas’ wrist, pulling his fingers slowly out of you. “Cas— _fuck_.” Still holding onto him, you draw him back to his feet.

He comes up easily, lithely, his hot-as-hell smile suggesting he knows exactly how well he did. His tongue traces over his lower lip. “Glad you approve.”

“Nnyyhh.” You’re about to thump your head against Cas’ shoulder, but that’s when Dean takes Cas’ good hand, lifts Cas’ fingers to his mouth, and slowly licks the shine off of them. Dean’s eyelids are low, gaze flickering between you and Cas. With Cas’ wet fingertips at his wet mouth, Dean murmurs, “You know how good you taste?”

“Holy shit, Dean.” You grind back against him, and he goes “ _Mmmph”_ and grinds into you. Cas, meanwhile—he’s tenting his boxers. “Okay,” you breathe, reaching for the button keeping him in. “Okay. I’m out, but I’m not down.” 

“Uh,” says Cas, “I think the expression goes the other— _oh_.”

He’s a line of heat against your palm, solid and smooth, and he groans your name, hips arching into your touch as you close your fingers around him. His eyes are wide, his brows at a desperate angle as he looks down between the both of you, and he groans again when you jack slowly from root to tip.

Dean presses a kiss against your neck, then against Cas’ temple, and rushes a “Be right back.” Cas turns to nip Dean’s lower lip before Dean slips away, then rolls his hips into your downstroke. You breathe shakily at each other’s mouths; you nip at Cas’ own lower lip and he seals his mouth to yours with a broken sound.

Dean comes back, now without his drive suit at his ankles, his shirt and boxer-briefs still on. There’s a little bottle in his palm. “C’mere.” He’s using that dark, near-slur of a sex voice again, pausing at your left, Cas’ right. “Cas—c’mere, let’s give her a show.”

Cas rumbles a deep sound of approval, his tongue tracing softly against yours once more before he pulls back.

Dean lines them up and wraps them both in his shining-wet palm, a firm stroke up and then down, and they gasp out strangled noises like they’re startled at how good it is. They can’t seem to decide where to look—at the sight between them, up at each other, or at you. Dean drapes his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close for a kiss, close enough that the knuckles of his busy hand brush the hem of your shirt, your belly, at the crest of every stroke. He’s going slow and easy—joltingly, as Cas’ mouth latches to your neck and you moan. 

But holy hell, together they're so damn thick that Dean can't get his hand all the way around the two of them. Apart from being just, like, _beyond_ hot, you think you can help. At first you just trail your fingertips over the movement of Dean’s hand, and beneath it, letting Dean’s pace dictate where you touch. The noises they make at that—Christ. If anyone walks by this door, they’re gonna get a damn earful. Then you settle your hand into the gap Dean can’t quite reach, gripping his fingertips with your own, making a space for them to both thrust up into. “Fuck,” you manage faintly. “Heard you both wanna be inside me, but you guys are crazy if you think you’re both gonna fit.”

“Shit,” Dean groans, ducking his head against Cas’, but Cas is watching you. The corner of his mouth tugs up, his gaze focused and. . . and _commanding_.

“Nnnh,” Dean says. “Cas, she’s into it. Just go for it.”

Cas’ focus only sharpens. He’s not a panting, needy mess anymore; he’s just holding your gaze. “Fit or not,” he says, “you’ll take what we give you.”

“Oh, holy hell,” you mutter, face heating, “ _Yes._ That—I’m into. Yes.”

“Told you,” Dean says to Cas, and kisses him. Together, you and Dean pull your grip down as they slide up, and the sticky-slick noise is so ridiculously filthy that warmth starts pounding between your legs again. “We’re gonna bring all that out.” Dean’s panting, but he’s making it work. “All that filthy shit we always talked about for the three of us, Cas—it’s real. We’re gonna do it. All of it.”

“And you have them, don’t you.” Cas’ voice is at your ear, his mouth catching your jaw. “Memories of those conversations. 

You take a brief jaunt inward, searching, and. . . yep. Yeah, you have them all right. Oh, god, the things they want to do with you, the things they’ve so carefully tried to push down, forget. . . “Jesus, you guys, yes—”

“Fuck,” Dean pants, “ _fuck_ , m’gonna—Cas—?”

Cas makes a noise like _augh_ , his hips stuttering as they jerk hard, and suddenly your grip is warmer and wetter, and Dean groans, “Yeah— yeah, give it to us, c’m— _ahh._ Fuh— _fuck_ , yeah, ” and then he’s spilling, too, his open mouth catching yours, pouring his moan out against your tongue as the two of you jack them both until there’s nothing left to give.

You’re panting in gasps that have some _voice_ to ‘em, staring wide-eyed at the mess on your hands. Hand. Your other arm is around Dean’s waist. Each of their bodies heaves for air against yours, all that muscle and power completely undone for you. Because of you.

“Shit.” Dean uncurls his grip. “ _Nngh._ Made a damn mess.”

“You love it,” Cas accuses, weary.

“Dude, he _does_.” You hide your face briefly in Cas’ neck against another onslaught of memories.

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” Dean reaches behind his head and pulls off his tee, balling his hand up in it, then swiping at your fingers. You let him, suddenly staring at his bare, gorgeous chest.

It’s one thing to have a memory through his eyes and Cas’. It’s another to be this close, all that freckled, pale-gold skin, the tight curves of his pecs, the anti-possession tattoo standing out in sharp relief. His dog tags hang over his sternum, right between—you reel against another rush of memories, the things he likes done to those perky-as-hell nips. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flex and shift as he cleans up you and Cas. “Wow,” is all you manage. 

“Preachin’ to the choir, here,” Dean mutters, with a little smirk. “You know how good you look right now?”

You look down. Sports bra, bare thighs still shining-wet from their through devastation. Panties and drive suit bunched sloppily around your shins. “I—no?”

Cas’ good hand traces down your side. “You’ll have to take our word.”

You grin. You’re shaking your head, still elated. “Yeah, all right.”

_Bang bang bang._

The three of you jump; it’s directly behind your head. 

“Dean?” A muffled voice from the other side of the hatch. “Cas? It’s me.”

You blink, wide-eyed. _Sam._  

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “ _Shit_ —uh—Sam, you’re gonna have to give us five.”

“Oh, god,” Sam groans, “you _guys_.”

“Can it,” Dean calls, and then, to you and Cas: “All right, double-time, I guess.”

You stumble out of your drive suit and duck into their bathroom; Dean tosses a pair of regulation sweats after you. You hear drawers opening, closing, as you clean yourself up. Sam’s muffled voice, still on the other side of the crank door, Dean’s “No, we’re—Jesus, hold _on_ ,” and Cas’ teasing admonishment.

There’s a plain gray tee on the rack by the towels, draped with enough care that it must be clean, and you pull it on, breathing in. _Cas_. The warmth of that feeling, of _him_ , settles around you and on into your bones. For a moment you just clutch the fabric to your nose. The whole last decade of tiny, not-enough moments of closeness, and now you’re here, breathing him in.

For how much longer, though?

Sooner or later, you’re gonna need to get into that Jaeger and ride off on a mission that you might not come back from. And if you fail, it really might be the end of the world.

No. _No_. Focus on the present. If you freak out now, you won’t stop.

With a pause in the mirror to make your hair less of a wild mess ( _their hands did this to you_ ), you step back out into the room just as Sam comes in.

He looks great, honestly. Tall as ever, rocking a regulation navy-blue sweater and long, looong jeans. His beard’s just barely redder than his shaggy hair, and he’s carrying a huge paper bag and a cardboard tray with four coffees. When he sees you, those hazel eyes light up and a smile lifts the corners of that dimpled mouth.“Figured I’d find you here.”

Your face is on _fiyah_. “You did, huh.”

He sets his stuff down on the desk. “Brought breakfast.”

“The hell time is it anyway,” Dean mutters. He and Cas are both more presentable, but there’s a messy streak through Dean’s hair where you had your hand in it, and Cas’ is standing up at odd angles. _Nice._  

“Four-thirty,” says Sam. “Everybody in the city’s awake. Figured you guys would be, too.”

The four of you settle in—Cas at the desk chair, Sam at the foot of the bed, you and Dean leaning up against the wall, where the headboard should be. “Not that I mind,” you say, cradling your warm coffee in your hands, “but aren’t you supposed to be out there?” 

“Eh.” Sam scratches his beard. “Asked to come in, though, since my brother’s Jaeger team just got shuffled up. Wanted to check on Cas. But yeah, they got more than enough guys out there.”

“Right,” says Cas. “The entire Pan Pacific Recovery Corps is here in Hong Kong now, aren’t they.”

“Exactly. Last of ‘em got in yester—um, the other day, with _Striker_. I’d just be in the way out there.”

“Well.” Dean’s voice is a little quiet as he lifts his coffee. “Everything going on—glad you’re here, man.”

Sam bails him out. “Even though I interrupted a booty call?" 

Dean splutters.

“Yeah,” says Sam, smirking. “Tendo said you guys bailed out of that simulator room pretty quick. I can put A and B together.”

“So can your brother,” you mutter, and Dean’s spluttering turns into laughter; even Cas grins at you.

God, you missed Sam. Having him around for the last week has been awesome. Before his team showed up here in Hong Kong, it’d been two years since you’d last seen him, but you all got back on your same bullshit in no seconds flat. Except for the decaying metal walls, this could be Sam’s room at the bunker, the four of you nursing hangovers with episodes of whatever was on Netflix. But Sam carries himself a little differently now—less like he’s trying not to take up space, and more like he’s ready to face whatever’s next. His eyes shine with confidence. Also there’s a weirdly-sexy streak of graying brown in his hair. And through his beard.

“I’m not surprised,” Sam says now. “You guys always had _something_ going on. Probably shoulda said something years ago and saved you all a lot of angst.”

Dean’s gaping. “Yeah. _Yeah_ , man, a heads up woulda been nice.”

“As if you’d’ve listened,” Cas points out.

You grin into your coffee. “Cas speaking the truth over here.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Touché.”

Across the room, the main phone line lights up.

The four of you stare at it. Literally, duty’s calling.

“Shit,” mutters Dean. He eases off the mattress, then goes and flips the switch open; a holo-screen appears between the prongs. 

It’s Tendo, parked at his station in LOCCENT. “Time to suit up,” he says. “We got movement in the Breach. Two Category 4s.”

Dean looks back at you, stricken, as dread wells up inside you. Dean says, “Where they heading?”

“They aren’t. They’re just circling. Marshal wants you and the Chief suited up and down here in fifteen for the briefing. _Mary_ , _Gipsy_ , and _Striker_ —everybody’s on deck.”

“Tendo. Hey.” You slip off the bed and come closer, so he can see you. Tendo lifts a brow, but mercifully doesn’t comment. “What’s the situation with _Mary_?”

“Still working,” he says. “Stabilizers are back online, but the damage on the chest plate knocked out the sensors that seal all the watertight panels.”

“Shit.” You scrub a hand through your hair. If you’re gonna take this fight to the Breach, the panels _have_ to be watertight. The Breach is at the bottom of the ocean, for frick’s sake. Your crew’s been working their asses off, and you’ve been—what. Getting laid? Ish? Guilt heats your face. “I’m on my way down. I can jump in once I—”

“Chief,” Tendo says, super gently. “Leave it to us. You just suit up. Both of you. Fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” says Dean. He flips the switch off, and then the room’s silent. The two of you turn back to Cas and Sam, and your heart plummets; their quiet, doe-eyed stares are just gutting. The little dream world you four have created in this room is cracking apart.

“Welp,” says Dean, all rough. “This ain’t our first apocalypse.”

Cas stands up and goes to him. And you. “Far from it.”

Dean grits his teeth. “So let’s get to work.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus this is so unedited and rough, whoops.
> 
> Next chapter will be 95% porn, I promise. Comin' out June 2. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> <3

 

**_January, 2025  
_ ** **_The Breach_ **

 

“We got this, _Mary_.” Raleigh sounds like a wreck, worse through the crackled connection. “We’re in. We’ll finish this. You get to the surface.” 

“Bail outta there.” Herc’s voice grinds down the line. “Both of you, eject _now_.”

They’re right. They’re right, there really is nothing left. _Striker_ ’s gone, Chuck and Pentecost with it; they set off the payload to take out as many Kaiju as they could. _Gipsy_ ’s got a dead Kaiju shish-kebabed, and they’re dragging it into the Breach, just like Newt and Hermann said they should. All you’ve got is a mangled Jaeger that’s bleeding oxygen and missing a limb and a half. Every master alarm is blaring, drenching the Conn-Pod in red light. 

“Raleigh’s right,” says Dean. He’s breathing hard in the lack of O2, leaning heavily on the center console. “C’mon, Chief. Time to go.”

“Your oxygen levels are critical.” Herc’s barely keeping an even tone. “You’re taking on water. Eject, and do it _now_ , before your brother and Castiel here tear my head off.” 

Cas. Sam. Right.

“We promised Cas,” you remember aloud. Your voice is almost lost under the blaring alarm and water hissing into the Conn-Pod, but Dean reads you through the drift. Your arm shakes, flipping the comm line permanently open. “Yeah. Okay, guys. We’re ejecting.”

“I’m sending Mako up, too.” Raleigh’s every word is labored.

“We’ll watch for her.” Dean’s hand is next to yours, on his own comms panel.

“ _Mary_ ,” insists Herc, “do it before you have total systems failure, _come on_!”

“We’re on our way,” you promise, and look at Dean. “Ready?” 

Water droplets shine on his helmet as he nods. “Ready.”

Your knees wobble, weak with relief. You made it. You both made it. You’re gonna get outta here. You’re gonna make it back to the surface, and you’re gonna sleep for a frickin’ decade, and then you’re going to just—just bone the hell down on Dean and Cas _both_ , and make up for all that lost time. Dean’s amusement, agreement, and even distant threads of arousal ripple through your mind, your body. The _hell yes_ of it makes you grin. 

Yeah, there’s gonna be mourning. Chuck, and Marshal Pentecost, and if Raleigh can’t make it out in time—

But you get to live. For once, Team Free Will is gonna get out of this apocalypse with everybody intact. 

“Let’s jet.” You type in the escape pod start-up sequence, a three-key code you’ve always known and they’ve never had to use. Dean’s harness immediately lifts him to the ceiling, right into the escape pod.

You’re next, and— 

Steel grinds and groans. Your harness jolts, judders, but doesn’t move.

Oh, _balls_. During this fight, Scunner hit you guys _hard_ , and you fell against the harness at a weird angle. Now, you twist around to look, and see it: the steel casing around the upper part of the harness has cracked, separated, and is jammed up in the joints and hinges. Too high to reach from this angle.

It’s keeping you from lifting into the escape pod.

Dizziness swells up as your heart starts pounding harder. “Guys,” you croak. “I think we have a problem.”

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

**_January, 2025  
_** **_Hong Kong City  
_ ** **_Hours Earlier_ **

 

Goodbye kisses still lingering on your lips, you head for your room, just a few doors away.

 _Shower._ You give yourself a few minutes to wash away yesterday’s rainwater, and fear sweat, and. . . and _good_ sweat. You stare down at your own thighs. Cas was _right there,_ barely an hour ago. Dean shoulda got down there, too, you shoulda done that for them, while you had the time.

Dammit. Don’t start. Don’t start thinking about it like that. About what won’t be. Just keep moving forward.

Swiping steam from the mirror makes you frown. You don’t want to face an apocalypse without at least some frigging mascara, but god, you have no _time_. You check your phone. Well, you have five minutes. You use every moment of it, then then you pull on undies and a fresh sports bra, drag your new drive suit on, and take a good look around your room. “I’ll be back,” you say aloud. And, before you can stop yourself: “No way I’m letting Sam paw through all my stuff.”

The hatch closes with a final-sounding _clank_ behind you.

LOCCENT is crawling with people and activity, but Dean and Cas pick you out right away, waving you over. Oh, lord, they’re holding back smiles as you approach, their eyes shining. Sam’s there with them, and Herc, too, but Herc’s grim and quiet, so you quickly school your face to something that isn’t, like, morning-after giggly. Chuck’s to the left of his dad, fully suited up, Max the dog sitting with one paw on his boot. You squint. Herc can’t ride, so who the hell’s jockeying with Chuck? His dog?

Mako and Raleigh, _Gipsy_ ’s pilots, are off to Chuck’s left. They’re angled toward one another with a quiet, big-eyed intensity, and you wonder if their drifts hit as hard as yours and Dean’s did. You met Raleigh years ago, on shore leave to Anchorage to see Sam. That was just a few months before Knifehead changed the game and pulled Yancey Beckett right out of _Gipsy’s_ Conn-Pod to his death. Today, there’s no trace of the brash, bold Raleigh you met in Alaska. He’s full of quiet determination. Mako, at his side, is just as quiet, and when they look at each other, so much understanding passes between them that you look away, embarrassed.

Crowded as it is in here, it’s not crowded enough. There was a briefing just hours ago as two Kaiju raced toward Victoria Harbor. The Kaidanovskis were here. So were the Weis. Also. . .

“Dude.” You nudge Dean’s side. “Where the hell’s the Marshal?”

“He’s late.” Pentecost brushes past you, clanking into LOCCENT. He’s—holy shit, he’s wearing a drive suit.

So _that’s_ Chuck’s co-pilot.

Whoa. _Whoa_. Hold up. The plan had always been for _Striker_ to drop the nuke on the Breach and _try_ to scram, but even so, they had the worst odds of anyone on this mission. And now the Marshal’s…

You look at Herc, horrified. His hollow-eyed gaze confirms it: he knows he’s about to lose his son and best friend both.

The rest of the room holds its breath as they realize the same.

The Marshal lays out the plan: get to the Breach. _Mary_ and _Gipsy_ , run defense for _Striker_ until _Striker_ can drop the payload. Then get out. If the job’s done right, the bomb will take out the two Kaiju floating around the Breach. If not, it’s up to _Mary_ and _Gipsy_ gotta stop them. 

Pentecost looks up from the map. He picks up his gloves and folds them into his hands. He studies everyone, one by one. “Sometimes it feels as though we’ve been fighting this war our entire lives,” he says. “But that ends today. Everything you’ve done, everyone we’ve loved and lost since Trespasser crawled out of the Breach on Day Zero—it’s all led to this moment.” He studies Chuck, then you and Dean, then Mako and Raleigh. “Make it count,” he says.

At his dismissal, the room dissolves into action.

Dean looks at you and Cas, muscles clenched in his jaw. “Well,” he says. “Let’s see whether _Mary_ —”

“Chief,” Pentecost calls across the table, eyes on you. “A word?”

Ah, great. What could you possibly have done now? Guts sinking, you glance back at Dean, Cas, and Sam. “I’ll catch up,” you promise. 

All around you, people clamor for the Marshal’s attention, but as you slide around the war table to get to him, he hones in on you with that steady gaze, and he actually smiles as you pull up. “I should never have doubted you,” he says quietly. “You’ve always been level-headed here on the ground. After what I saw in that simulation, I know you’ll be the same in a Conn-Pod.”

Jesus. He may as well’ve nominated you for a Nobel prize. “Sir. I. . .”

His smile warms. “I’m glad to have you at my back out there.”

“I—I feel the same, sir.” It’s the truth, too. His piloting days are literally legendary.

Pentecost nods. “Go make us proud.”

You head for the hall in a daze. Tendo intercepts you on the way, lifting his tablet, but he stops when he sees your face. “Whoa. You good, Chief?”

“I, ah. I think the Marshal just gave me a compliment.” 

Tendo squints. “Sure about that?”

“Nope.” You focus on his tablet. “Whatcha got?”

“Crew’s finishing up repairs—just finalizing the left hemisphere reset before we get rolling.”

“Shit.” You gnaw your lower lip, thinking. “How long’s that gonna take—fifteen minutes?”

“Could be twenty.” 

“We don’t _have_ twenty. Everybody’s gonna be shipped out in five—” Fear flip-flops in your guts. “What can I do?”

“Short of getting into gear and shimmying down the scaffolding? Nothing.”

“Dude.” You step closer, dead serious. “Get me a blowtorch, and I’m there.”

“No, hey.” Tendo’s just as serious. “We got it this time, Chief.”

“But—” 

“You’ve done enough for your people over the last few years. Let them take care of you, all right?” 

You put your hands on your hips. “Tendo. . .”

He squeezes your arm. “We got this. You get on up to the Conn-Pod.” He turns away, but calls over his shoulder, “And make it snappy out there. You’re buying shots when you get back.” 

Your lower lip is wobbling. “With pleasure.” It’s _been_ a pleasure, you mean. But he waves like he won’t let you believe that final-sounding nonsense.

When you turn to the hallway, Team Free Will is waiting for you.

It occurs to you, in sudden and vivid clarity, that in a few hours, Sam and Cas may be the only ones left.

Jesus Christ. Don’t. Just _don’t_. “Okay,” you say as you approach. “Apparently we got at least fifteen minutes, but. Dean, we can use the extra time to double-check our start-up sequence. Make sure we don’t miss anything.” 

Dean nods. “You got it.”

It’s a long, quiet elevator ride up to the Conn-Pod. Waiting around is the hardest part of any hunt, and it’s always driven you bonkers. You just wanna be _out there_ , actually _doing something_. Right now, you’d take anything besides Sam and Cas’ silence, the unspoken fact of your pending _adios_ pressing down on everyone.

When the elevator doors open to the Conn-Pod ramp, Herc’s there, waiting for you. He’s got a leash around his left wrist. Max the dog sits patiently beside him.

Holy shit. He came to say goodbye. 

Dean moves first. He walks out, thumps Herc’s good arm. They trade as manly a left-handed handshake as they can manage. Herc says, “Good hunting.”

“Thanks, man.” Dean glances back at you, then moves on. Cas shakes Herc’s hand, too, and then he and Sam trudge after Dean.

Then it’s just you, your ex, and his son’s dog. 

“Herc. Hi.” Your voice is catching on itself. “You didn’t have to come up here.”

“‘Course I did.” His soft eyes search your face. He’s memorizing, you realize, with a cold swell of terror. “Owed it to you.”

“Hey, c’mon. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you the—” He cuts himself off, mouth tightening. He says, “I had more fun the last three years than I have in—a long time. If we. . .”

You shift closer. Max hoists himself up on his hind legs, then puts his paws on your knee and pushes his head against your palm. “If we had more time,” you try, “maybe things would’ve gone differently.”

Herc smiles. “You know that isn’t the case.” He glances toward the end of the hall, where Dean has an arm around Cas’ waist as they chat with Sam.

You bite your lower lip. “Thought I was more subtle.”

“To everybody else? Yeah.” His lovely blue eyes find and hold yours. “Go on, love. They’re waiting for you.”

You try to hug him carefully, but his good arm falls around your shoulders and crushes you to his barrel chest. You close your eyes and breathe in his warmth, the familiar whiffs of water and work. He presses his mouth to your temple. “Give ‘em hell out there, Chief.”

When you turn to the end of the hall, your legs feel like lead. 

This is really happening. The end is nigh as fuck. 

Cas looks up at the sound of your boots, and he slips out of Dean’s grip, walking toward you. You thump into his arms. Arm. One still hovers against his side in that sling. You wrap yourself around his neck, up on your tiptoes to get as much of him as you can. “Hi,” you whisper.

Cas just clings tighter, and turns his face toward your hair. When you ease back, his eyes are glassy in the overhead light, locked with yours. “I was. Um. I had something inspirational, that I was gonna say. Something you. . . but I. . .” He breaks off to clench his jaw. “I just want you to come back to me. I don’t care that it’s selfish, that it’s not—I don’t care. You and Dean. . .” He moves in again, traces his fingertips above your ear, deep into your hair, until he’s cradling the back of your neck. “Please. Just come back.”

“Cas.” Your lower lip is wobbling, your eyes prickling.

His eyes are wet, now. “How do you get used to this? Being left behind?”

“Never did.” And that’s the damn truth. “Every time you guys went out there, I. . .” You close your eyes. You’re going to break apart, you can’t bear this. “Dammit. We wasted so much time.” 

Cas thumbs at a tender space along your neck. “We spent much of it together. It wasn’t a waste.”

You nod, somehow. “Hey. For what it’s worth.” Your own voice is watery. Weak. “Thank you. Just—for everything. You’ve always—” 

“Don’t.” His hand slips down, a thumb beneath your jaw so he can gently tilt you up to look at him. “We won’t do this. Not when I’ll see you again in just a few hours.”

Your lower lip’s trembling. “How can you be sure?”

“Unlike some of us. . .” His forehead bumps yours. “I still have faith.”

You blink at him, bewildered. “In _what_?”

His smile breaks your heart. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Ah, Christ. You’re out of words, out of time, so you tilt your chin up. Cas meets you there, his mouth soft and clutching. You sink your hands into his hair, pulling him to you, closer and deeper. He parts your lips with his own, and delves inside. _A goodbye kiss_ , you realize, and tamp down on the whimper threatening to escape. 

It winds down. That deep kiss turns to smaller ones, soft pecks, his nose nuzzling gently against your own. Cas’ mouth brushes against your lips when he murmurs, “Come back to me.” 

You sniffle. “Yeah. Gonna do my best.” You touch his cheek, his jaw, just to feel the prickle of stubble beneath the sensitive pads of your fingertips. He catches your hand and presses a kiss against your palm. God, you want your fingers in his mouth. You want him overtop you, sweat-soaked and shuddering. You want to drift off to sleep on his chest.

“Jesus, you two.” Dean’s at your side now, a little breathless. “Never gonna get tired of seeing this.”

You take your hand back. With a deep breath, you nod down the ramp. “I’m gonna—um. Say goodb—say _hi_ to Sam.”

“You don’t have to give us privacy,” says Cas.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is one grade above a rasp. “You’re gonna figure out everything we say in just a second here, once we. . .” He gestures at his noggin. The drift.

You can’t believe that after everything you’ve done (and _seen_ , come on) that you still feel _shy_. “Yeah, I know. But I’m gonna give you a minute anyway.” And you do.

Sam picks you up in a massive hug.

You cling tight around his neck, hiding your face in it. You nearly get a mouthful of hair when you whisper, “Hey, Sam.”

“Hey.” He lowers you until your boots clank onto the walkway again. He gives you this sad, quiet little smile. “Last chance to let me go in your place.”

“Dude.” You punch his shoulder, lightly. “I’m not letting just anybody drive my Jaeger.”

“Uh huh.” He studies you through his lashes. “You know who you sound like?”

You tap your temple. “Hey, I got his perspective now, so that territorial, vehicle-related B.S. makes way more sense.”

“She’s your Baby,” says Sam, holding up his hands. “I get it.”

“Yeah.” You glance to the left, where the Conn-Pod hatch stands open. “Guess she is.”

Sam drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. “Take care of each other out there.” 

“That’s the plan. And hey. Um.” You gulp, glancing up at him, unsure how to tell him exactly how much his support means. How much it’s _always_ meant. Especially earlier, when he was so damn cool about finding the three of you the way he did. “…thanks for breakfast?” 

Sam smiles in that quiet way that means he totally gets what you can’t (and won’t) say. Classic Winchesters. He kisses the top of your head. “Any time.” 

“You puttin’ the moves on our Chief, Sammy?”

Dean’s back, teasing, but you just put your hand on Sam’s chest. “Oh, he totally is.”

Sam wraps his other arm around you. “Yeah, we’re blowing this joint and moving to Cancun.”

You know from experience—from Dean, too—that the second you turn away, Sam’s face is going to crumple, and the cheery façade is going to fall the hell away. But for now—for now you’re so frigging grateful for his positive attitude. It actually makes you believe that everything might turn out fine after all. 

Dean moves in; Cas follows, and for a moment, the four of you just huddle there, gripping tight around each other. You close your eyes and just _feel it:_ the comforting weight of Sam’s arm around you, the tender press of Cas’ forehead to your temple. Your heart wraps itself around this moment, and these three. You’ve come so damn far together. This can’t be the end of the road. Not now.

Christ. You must’ve picked up decades of Dean’s self-delusion in that drift.

You all pull apart at once. You catch Cas’ good hand, clinging tight—anything to prolong this moment. You squeeze, and then his fingers slip through and out of yours. 

You turn to the ramp.

Dean’s watching you, the interior of the Conn-Pod glowing behind him, framing him, every line of his profile standing out crisp and clear. He holds out his hand. A hopeful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He says, “Let’s rock.”

You take his hand and follow him inside.

The tech crew helps seal you into the dangling, right-side harness, connecting the supports and triple-checking them. When you get your earpieces in, there’s already chatter, and you recognize Tendo’s voice right away. It’s just like always, except, y’know. Not like always. “Damn,” you tease, holding the comm channel open on the main panel. “I leave LOCCENT one time, and everybody starts slacking.” 

“All right, people,” says Tendo, a grin in his voice, “settle down, settle down, we got the Chief on the line.”

 _Mary_ looks so different from this angle. The front windshield only shows the wall ahead, ready for the drop down to the main chassis. Around you, as you tap in commands, layers of HUD interfacing light up, and then so do the keypad controls between you and Dean. Your hand’s steady as you punch in the sequence to start firing everything up, your voice clear as you go over the checklist with Dean.

Damn. This is _neat_. You always did kind of want to do this. Just not at the end of the world. 

The tech lady helping you gives you two thumbs up. “All set,” she says. She gives your helmet a pat. “Kick ass out there.”

The hatch shuts behind them with a clank, and then a hiss for the hydraulic seals. This shit’s watertight now.

And you and Dean are alone.

He reaches for the comm line. “LOCCENT, this is _Hail Mary_. We’re ready for the drop." 

“Roger that, Conn-Pod,” says Tendo. “Chief, hold onto your breakfast.” 

“Hnngh,” you say, off the mic. It’s fifteen plummeting stories down to _Mary_ ’s shoulders and the main chassis, and Dean’s side of the Conn-Pod controls when you drop.

“Hey,” Dean says to you, also off-mic. “Want a countdown?”

You close your eyes and gulp, desperately glad you aren’t drifting with him yet. “Yeah, let’s try that.”

“On three, all right.”

There’s nothing to hold onto except an arm of the control panel. Not like you need it, sealed into the harness. But _still_. “Yeah. On three.” 

Dean grins, gently teasing, like he’s _enjoying this_. His hand hovers over the release button. “One. T—”

The Conn-Pod drops.

It’s so fast that for a second you feel weightless; your boots strain against the upper edges of the bootrests. It takes your breath away so that there’s nothing left to even yelp. When the brakes engage, whole Conn-Pod pulls up hard, slamming your heels back onto your soles, and the main Shatterdome hanger rises into view, bustling with activity, turning as the Conn-Pod screws into place on _Mary_ ’s shoulders like you’ve watched so many times before. 

“See?” Dean’s grinning. “Not so bad.”

Panting at him, you glare. “Nnnyuh huh.”

With the Conn-Pod facing front, LOCCENT is dead ahead with its glass partition that looks over the whole hanger bay. It’s too distant to make out much except for moving dots of people. Unless. . . limbs still shaky from that drop, you tap a few commands on the control panel, and the windshield selects an area and zooms in.

There’s Tendo, leaning on the mic. “ _Mary_ , Conn-Pod coupling complete and looking good.”

Herc leans in after him. “ _Mary_ , this is Sergeant Hansen. Stand by for neural handshake.” 

“Neural handshake initiating in fifteen seconds.” Tendo taps a few buttons, then sits back down at his station. “Fourteen. Thirteen.” 

Behind Herc and Tendo, Sam and Cas stand shoulder to shoulder, quiet and stern-faced. Sam’s arm’s are crossed; Cas’ good hand is deep in his pocket.

“Jesus,” you mutter, off-mic. “We’re not dead yet.”

Dean leans on the comms channel. “Hey, Sergeant. Tell the two grumpy old men behind you to lighten up, will you.”

Sam huffs a laugh, shaking his head. Cas’ wry smile is a soft, beautiful thing even in the low-res of that zoom.

“Five,” says Tendo, “four.”

“Dean.” Your voice croaks a little. “This ever get any easier? Less intense?” 

“The drift?” He gulps. “Nev—”

— _er considered how slick Cas’ jaw would be every time he surfaces, how she’d taste on Cas’ fingers when he lifted them, how—_ god _—how she tried to hide her face in your neck as though she’s ashamed of how much she loves this, can’t even believe—_

_—how good they are at this, how quickly they made you feel wanted, welcome, needed, desired, how you could barely breathe as Cas pulled strokes of pleasure in and out of you, the way Dean held you open, the cry you buried in his shoulder because you’re—_

_—noisy,” says Herc. His words’re running together; the guy’s drunk. So’re you, but that’s not important. “I mean not—mate, she’s just. Sexy. Is’th’sexiest—” “What we talkin’ bout,” you ask, bracing your forearms on the bar, “like, screamy, shrieky shit, or like—” “No—Christ—she just. Got a mouth on ‘er. Swearin’ up the place. Lets you know it’s good, y’know.” The room’s starting to spin, and still, you twitch in your pants. “She’s fun,” slurs Herc into his pilsner. “Just. Shit. She’s fun_. _More fun than I’ve had in a long time.” Okay. Ohhhkay. Time to go. Time to go and crawl into Cas’ arms and repeat everything Herc just—_

_—said she’s—she’s—” You’re barely awake but you’ve got two armfuls of a swaying, sloppy-drunk Dean, who’s claimed to have a good time out with Herc but whose lower lip is trembling. “She’s ‘fun,’” Dean says, bleary eyes downcast. “He said she’s more fun than he’s ever had.” Your own heart pitches at those words, jealousy a hot ebb and flow through your veins, shame trailing behind it. “Dean.” Your voice scrapes over sleep. “She doesn’t owe us anything. Not when we haven’t made this known to her.” “I know.” Dean rubs his temples. “I know, I know, I know. I just.” “Maybe it’s finally time we put a stop to—to talking about her, while we. . .” “Yeah. No, you’re right.” You study him, his eyes bright even in the dark. Quietly, you suggest, “Just one more time?” Dean stares to make sure you’re serious. Then he lunges—_

The Conn-Pod rocks back into focus so hard that you nearly lose your footing.

“Neural handshake at 100% and holding,” says Tendo. “Stand by for calibration.”

Dean clears his throat. Apology and embarrassment warm his face, which, god, you can _feel_.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you tell him, reaching out a hand. You intended it to soothe, but you freeze, knowing _Mary_ will imitate the move with her massive arm the size of a— 

No. Wait a second. 

 _Mary_ doesn’t imitate your every move. Somehow the drift technology means that she only moves when you _mean_ for her to move. She can separate unthinking movements from offensive or defensive combat-based actions. No wonder she doesn’t reach for the sky every time one of the pilots taps the control panels.

And unlike the drift in that test simulator earlier, you can… holy shit, you can feel her _._ Dimly, in the back of your mind, another presence that isn't Dean and isn't you. Waiting to get to work.

You blink at Dean. “Whoa.” 

“Right?” Dean’s hesitant amusement reaches you, and on its heels, a delicious wave of affection and fondness. 

“And dude.” You let your hand drop, finally. “Whatever I see—whatever you did—I guarantee I got something to mirror it.”  

His half-smile glows in the interior lights of his helmet. “Guarantee it, huh.” 

“Okay, folks.” It’s Tendo again. “We are ready for left and right hemisphere calibration. On your time.”

“Yeah,” you tell Dean. “Guarantee it.”

He faces front again, with a grinning half-shake of his head. “Think we’re gonna have to get into that later.”

 _When_? You don’t mean ask it, but you do, ignoring how desperate it sounds across the drift. _We’re outta time._

“On the way to the drop zone,” he suggests. “Can’t exactly count license plates the whole ride.” 

You consider this. “Aight.” It’s better than stewing in crippling fear. “But hey—calibration.”

“Calibration,” he agrees.

The two of you get into position. It’s go time.

 

* * *

 

 _Mary_ ships out eight minutes behind _Gipsy_ and _Striker_. It’s long enough to listen over the comms channel as they get nearly ripped to pieces. You’re desperate to dive in—literally; the ocean gleams far beneath _Mary_ as the choppers carry her out—but your urgency mingles with Dean’s in a potent cocktail of rabidity. You wanna get _set fuckin’ loose_ on those _mother fuckin’ Kaiju_. It’s still thirty seconds ’til the choppers can cut you free, and every second that ticks by is a small eternity.

Your entire body vibrates with the need to get into this god damn fight. Save your friends. The world can screw off; you’re not letting these people finish this alone. You’re not—dangit, this still matters—you’re not letting Herc’s son finish this alone. You jam down the comms button. “Ports and hatches sealed. We’re ready to get dunked.”

“Hang in there, guys.” Dean’s holding down his own comms button. “We’re almost there, we’re comin’ for ya.”

“Not a second to soon!” Chuck hollers, and both he and Pentecost yell out as they do—something, somewhere beneath the waves stretching in every direction.

“Shit,” you breathe. The clock’s down to fifteen seconds, beeping jarringly now at every digit.

“Wish we had a better soundtrack,” Dean mutters.

You stare. “What, like—a mix tape for the end of the world?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I— _what_?”

He purses his lips. Blue light swirls into your vision, a memory rising up— 

_—into the tape deck, a cassette Sam gave you years ago and you pretended to hate because dad was listening in. But when dad wasn’t around, you and Sam drove with the volume cranked and the windows down. He always got the opening accent perfect. Which means he’ll know you’re here for him when you roll up with it thumping outta the stereo, the second he hears it: Gunter, glieben, glauten, globen—_

“ _Rock of Ages?_ ” Your voice squeaks in delighted disbelief. “You played fricking Def Leppard on the way into that fight?”

 _Better to burrrn out_ , it goes along in your head. And in Dean’s. _Than fade away-ee-ee_.

You acquiesce. “Yeah, okay, that works.”

BLEEPBLEEPBLEEPBLEEP—

Timer’s at zero. Quickly, you tap the release sequence in. The anchor bearings that connect _Mary_ to the choppers overhead snap loose all at once. 

 _Mary_ plummets, and when she hits the surface, water sprays all the way up to the windshield. You sink down through the darkness, ears popping as the cabin pressure adjusts.

“Visibility zero,” says Dean, hand on the comms. “Still can’t see the—”

“Breach,” you manage; there’s something glowing hot orange far below, clearer by the second. “Twelve o’clock low.” And shit, those lights, they gotta be— 

“ _Gipsy_ and _Striker_ ,” Dean calls out. “We’re right above you, comin’ in hot!”

“Nice timing, _Mary_ ,” says Raleigh, and his voice is already dragging with exhaustion.

“Hang tight, we’re nearly there!” You can see them now, Jaegers and Kaiju, the fight, and shit— _shit_ , Jesus, that’s a huge honking Kaiju. “Dean—” 

“I see ‘em.” He jams a button on his side of the console, and _Mary’s_ unique, subsonic low pitch thunders out of her, so loud even in the water that it rattles the frame—and beneath you, growing closer by the second, the Kaiju stalking a limping _Gipsy_ looks up. 

“ _That’s right, you big ugly fuck!_ ” You bring up the serrated edge of _Mary’s_ right arm, locked across her chest. “ _Come and get some_!”

The Kaiju screams and launches itself upward, leaving _Gipsy_ behind.

 _Here we go_. The feeling, more than the words, soaks over you like cold adrenaline. The start of a fight. You know how to do this. You’re ready.

“Dean. Left jets.” Your voice is steady. “On my mark.”

Dean’s fingers fly over the controls. “Ready.”

The Kaiju’s coming closer. Closer. Fuck, it’s _huge_ , it’s bigger than any you’ve ever seen, raising an arm the size of an aircraft carrier, winding up for a hit. Closer. You breathe, “ _Now._ ”

The left jets fire, launching you to the right, and you _slam_ the serrated arm outward. The blade connects so hard that the Conn-Pod jolts, juddering as _Mary_ ’s arm cuts the Kaiju open from belly all the way around to its back. Blue blood smears into the highbeams.

Dean’s triumph lightning-flashes through you as the Kaiju screams. _Mary’s_ still plummeting toward the sea floor, just a klick away from the bright orange glow of the Breach. The little tracker in the corner of the HUD says that you’re only two hundred meters up. One hundred. 

“Shit,” you mutter, typing commands in to brace for impact with the sea bed. “Hey. Dean. How the hell much of this is just you guys swearing off-mic?” 

“Oh, hundred percent.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Give or ta—”

 _Mary_ hits the bottom far gentler than you expect. Together you and Dean steady her, big arms out. “Party’s here,” you announce.

“ _Mary_!” Herc’s voice, urgent. “Scunner’s coming back around for you—clear out of there!”

You and Dean turn; Scunner’s arrived on the sea floor, too, four hundred meters off. It roars, weird-ass face opening wide, and it barrels toward you.

You don’t even think about it. You just _move_ , picking up your knees, putting them down again, completely in sync with Dean, thundering across the sea bed. You both haul your right arms back, and _Mary_ ’s right arm follows, and you sink it hard into Scunner’s ugly-ass mug. 

The shock of impact barely even reaches the Conn-Pod; you reach back to do it again, and again. Dean’s thoughts are your thoughts, your movements are his, so when he sinks _Mary_ ’s open palm into flesh to tear it open, you’re right there with him, tearing from the other side, muscles quivering in your arms at the resistance. Scunner tears up your rig, and pieces of the Jaeger go floating past the windshield, but neither you nor Dean let it shake you. You keep going. You keep pushing.

The Breach has the Kaiju lit up in silhouette, and its scream vibrates along _Mary_ ’s spine so hard that you feel it in your own. “ _Now_!” Dean yells, and you don’t have to ask what; you just do the motion with him, left arm back, wrist turn, and the fingers of _Mary’s_ left hand rearrange, sinking back; panels slide apart and shift and then the entire left arm sharpens to a speared point. Dean plunges it forward and you help, and together with the serrated edge, you saw the blade through the thing’s rippling insides, bones splitting with a dying scream you can hear through the water and windshield.

Herc’s yelling fades back in. “—nice one, _Mary_! Now get to _Striker_ , they’re in trouble!” 

You’re panting, shaky all over, but you still glow at Herc’s praise. You wanna be embarrassed about it, but god—Dean’s glowing, too, grinning at you as he pants.

You hold the comm line open. “ _Striker,_ we’re coming for you.”

“Us, too.” It’s Raleigh’s voice, utterly exhausted. “On our way.”

“No!” The Marshal’s voice is so loud, it crackles the line. “ _Do not come to our aid!_ ” 

You and Dean stare at one another.

That's when everything going wrong gets worse.

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

**_January, 2025  
_** **_The Breach_ **

  

“Problem?” Dean’s just gotten up to the escape pod, but you’re still connected to him via radio and drift. “Kid, what—what problem?”

“Shit.” You’re trying to keep from flat-out losing your goddamn shit. Panic flits against the edges of your efforts to keep calm and carry the hell on. “Um. Part of the harness casing broke off. It’s lodged up in the— _fuck_ , I can’t reach it. Gotta disengage and pull it out manually.”

“Coming back down,” says Dean, while LOCCENT talks urgently over him. “We can both go up in mine—”

“ _No_. No, Mark-4 pods can only support one—and—Jesus, don’t be an idiot, this entire operation’s gonna blow any second.” Dark spots are now yawning in and out at the edge of your vision. You shake your head, reaching for the control panel. It’s starting to light up as Dean taps in the reverse commands from inside the escape pod. He’s fast, but you’re faster, even all blurry and low on air. Your fingers fly over the keys. “Dean, _stop_. I’ll see you up there, okay.”

“Don’t,” says Dean, voice rising. He’s realizing it now—that you’re doing a manual override of the evac system to get him the hell out of here. “No, no, _no_ , don’t you dare pull a me, all right, we can—” 

With a muffled _THUMP_ , the hatch beneath the escape pod seals, and then goes watertight with a _HISSSS._

Dean’s terror jolts through the drift. He yells your name. “Don’t. _Don’t!”_

Whatever. He'd do the same damn thing if your positions were reversed.

_Doesn’t matter—please, don’t do this, I can help—_

With another _HISSSS_ of water flooding the escape pod chamber, then another _THUMP_ , the HUD lights up in front of you: ESCAPE POD 1 - JETTISONED.

Any second now, the drift is gonna cut off as he gets out of range. Then the pod will knock him out. Underwater escapes gotta do that to stabilize the passenger. Otherwise, they get the bends. Bad.

 _Hey._ You reach across the connection.  _At least this way, one of us makes it. It’s okay. I promise it’s okay._

 _No—you know how many times I’ve tried that same—_ please _—_

He’s gone.

“Chief,” says Herc, evenly, “what the ruddy hell is going on.”

You blink wide, trying to clear those dark spots. Comm switch is still open. Good. “Dean was trying to stay behind. He’s on his way up. Now _I’m_ trying to pull this debris outta the—oh, boy.”

As you disconnect from the harness, the floor churns beneath you, kicking up water now with every rotation. You turn in place, in the bootrests, _fuck_ , this is difficult when you’re this dizzy. You spy the jagged plate of steel, lodged in a joint high above your shoulder.

The master alarm is still blaring. Water sprays across your helmet as soon as you get up on your tiptoes, tripling your dizziness as streams rush across the visor. When did your arms get so heavy? Those dark spots are edged in colors now, tingling and prickling in and out as your head swims. You get back down on your heels, trying to catch your breath, but you can’t. You don’t have the air.

Fuck.

Fuck, you’re not gonna make it. 

“Guys.” You’re breathing hard, swaying in place. “I can’t. . .”

There's a din on the other end of the line. No, normal voices—you just can’t isolate them. You just. . . 

Cas says your name, close and warm and urgent.

They’ve let him have the mic.

“Cas?” It's a whimper.

“I’m here.” The desperation in his voice guts you. “I’m right here.” 

“Cas.” You put both hands on either side of your helmet, trying to crush your earpieces even deeper. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Yes, you can. You—listen to me.” It’s just him and you, and the hissing water. And the master alarm. And your heartbeat, thick in your throat. “I’m gonna walk you through it. Step by step, until you’re in that escape pod. Understand?”

“Okay.” You’re still panting. _Fuck_ , the air in here. . . “There’s a—a piece of—it’s lodged, it’s keeping the harness. . .”

“Can you get it out by hand?” 

You blink at it. Water drips off the jagged edge, into your visor. “Uh.”

Even in your haze, it’s clear that Cas is barely hanging onto calm. “There’s an emergency kit near the hatch. Mallet, pliers—”

“No, I know. I just. Um. Lemme. . .” Up on your toes again, you wrap a hand around the metal, tighten your fist, brace your feet in the bootrests, and pull with all your might.

Nothing happens. You let go, every breath wheezing, but shit, it’s clear there isn’t gonna be air until you get your ass into that escape pod. And you won’t do that until you get this cracked debris outta here.

“Come on.” Cas’ voice fills the speakers. “I know you can do this.” 

 _Come on,_ Dean said, all those years ago, _c’mon, kid, just say when, just give us the word_.

Cas had said your name, after that. That desperate twist of sound that later made you—well. Point is, they coulda given up then, let that Kaiju barrel them down. And maybe they would’ve, if you hadn’t been there to talk them through it. But you were there, and they kept on fighting, and they kicked ass, and now you know that they’ve loved you this whole time, and they always want to. 

They gave you everything when they had nothing left, that day. Only fair that you give them a hundred and ten percent right back.

Grinding your teeth together, blinking the spots away, you lunge up and grab that metal shard with both gloved hands. You let all your weight fall on it, eyes squeezed shut, and—

It breaks free so fast that you nearly lose your footing, and you gotta crash into the side console to catch yourself.

“I did it,” you breathe. 

“Then you get back in that harness.” Cas’ voice is still urgent. No relief, yet. You’re still down here. He’s still up there. “And you get out of there. _Now_.”

“Okay.” You’re gasping now, every breath with some voice to it. Your vision’s closing in on itself. Everything seems far away. The bootrest clamps raise back up; the harness scaffolding re-attaches to your shoulders, your wrists. “Cas?”

“I’m here. I’m with you.”

“Don’t go anywhere, okay.”

“I won’t.” His voice sounds further away, too. “Are you back in the harness?”

“Y-yeah.” You reach for the control panel with an arm that feels like lead. You drag your fingers across the command keys.

As your vision darkens, your body goes weightless.

 _Sweet mercy on toast,_ you think, but even thinking feels like you’re doing it from a distance _. That better be the damn harness lifting me into the escape pod._

Darkness closes in before you get to find out.

 

* * *

 

Light flickers on the other side of your eyelids, still too heavy to open.

Something lifts your head and then frees it, swamping you with dizziness, but damp, salty air alights on your lips and cheeks, fills your lungs with even brighter gulps of oxygen. Helmet’s off. Sound comes in slowly, a haze that takes you a second to decipher; one earpiece is gone, the other still hangs on. “. . . no, no, _no_ —please, come on—”Bare fingertips trace up under your jaw, pressing into your pulse point. “Guys—Tendo, c’mon, man, d’you—”

“Just check again. Check again, we can’t get a clear reading; that short back in the Conn-Pod messed with your vitals—”

“Is she breathing?”

“Cas—dammit, I can’t tell. The, the wind out here—”

Dizziness again; your guts drop, your head lolls onto something—a shoulder. That’s a shoulder, and your body is. . . Dean must have you cradled against him. But even settled like this, everything pitches and rolls around you. Beneath you.

It’s coming back now: you must be in the opened escape pod. It’s bucking around because you’re in the middle of the dang ocean. But Dean’s got you. He’s got you.

Feeling’s coming back to your fingertips. That is, feeling that isn’t just tingling. You pull in a deep breath, and then another, and light sears across your vision as your eyelids flutter. Dean croaks your name in a thin, disbelieving rasp.

You blink up at him. Ah, hell, he looks beautiful—his hair’s wet; water clings to his lashes, quivers and sparkles on the tips of his helmet hair. Water shines on his drive suit. The guy swam over to you from his pod, you guess? It’s a little overcast above him, but in that light, the shadow of his own face, his worried green eyes take your breath away all over again. “Toldja I’d meet you up here,” you croak. 

With a strangled sound, Dean crushes you against him. In the headset, LOCCENT crackles as people yell within a foot of the mic. Each breath is steadier than the last, and you tuck your nose into Dean’s neck. “Hi,” you whisper.

“Hey.” His voice is a mess, too. “Scared the shit out of me, you know that?”

"Yep." You're fizzling with relief. “Did Mako and Raleigh. . .?”

“'Bout a hundred meters starboard,” he says. “Both of ‘em. See?” His body shifts as he waves, and you peek from under his arm. Raleigh’s got an arm in the air, too.

“Did Raleigh—the Breach?”

“Blew it up. He blew it up, it’s gone.” 

Your lower lip wobbles. Your eyes prickle. “We’re done? That’s it?”

“Yeah, kiddo. That’s it.”

You wrap a hand into his drivesuit at his waist, closing your watering eyes. “Holy shit.” 

The rumbling you thought was your own thrumming head turns out to be helicopters, a whole squadron of them heading your way for a pickup. “The fuck,” you mutter, blinking away tears and salt spray, “they not get the memo that we all evac’d?”

“Guess not.” Dean’s peering up at them. Behind him, clouds stack high against the blue sky. Good grief, it’s gorgeous out here. Honestly, it could be raining and miserable, and it’d still be gorgeous. You made it. You're alive, and you're here with Dean. 

He looks back down at you, and he’s gorgeous too. You shift your hand to his collar and pull him down for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Cas’ is the first face you see when the pilot rolls back the chopper door and kicks the stairs open. The crowd behind him cheers, in motion as arms raise and hats get thrown skyward, but Cas is a fixed point at the front of the throng, beaming, his eyes shining in the morning light. Sam’s at his side, grinning through his beard, cheering as the crowd raises a ruckus at the sight of you and Dean. 

Your legs wobble down those deep steps and then Cas is reaching for you with his good arm and you thump into his whole body. “Sorry,” you manage, “shit, sorry, your arm,” but he just hauls you in even closer with a quiet, relieved noise against your ear. You tuck your face into his shirt collar to hide your grin.

Sam bear-hugs Dean; you watch from beneath Cas’ chin, laughing through blurring eyes. You can barely hear over the commotion, over the pats raining down on your back and Dean’s. When Dean turns to Cas and you, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him this giddy. He comes right up to you both, takes Cas’ face in his hands, and kisses him. The crowd loses it, _WOO_ ing as Dean and Cas just smile into each other, weary with relief and love.

The crowd tugs you toward the Shatterdome, toward a debrief. For once, you go gladly, laughing as you lean into Dean’s side, his arm draping around you as he plants a kiss atop your head.

But Herc and Tendo meet you at the entrance. Herc’s holding Max’s leash in his bad hand, and Max goes _roof!_ as you all approach. Herc looks so damn weary, but he’s smiling anyway. At his side, Tendo beams like a proud big brother, clipboard under his arm as he applauds with the rest of LOCCENT’s crew gathered around them.

Herc stands up straight as the four of you approach, and salutes you with his left hand. You, Dean, and Cas do it back, automatic. You love Herc so much in this moment that your heart swells with it. Surely he’d rather be anywhere else—somewhere he can grieve his son and friend, alone—but he’s here to welcome you back.

As the crowd chills out with the cheering and whooping, Herc drops his hand. His throat bobs, but he’s smiling. “Ranger,” he says. “Chief. I let Rangers Beckett and Mori out of a debrief. Feel it’s only fair if I do the same for you.”

The crowd cheers again, whistling, and you and Dean trade relieved, surprised grins.

Herc’s mouth tugs up. “Dismissed.”

Tendo catches you by the arm as he passes in the crowd, and leans in close. “Party’s already started down in the boiler room. Get there or get square.”

“Dude.” You gesture at your suit. “I gotta get into something—”

“No need,” Tendo says, glancing at Dean and Cas for support. “Only get a saved-the-world shindig once, right guys?” 

Dean beams at you. “The man makes a good point.”

“Be there,” says Tendo.

You want to get down there. You do.

It’s just.

You glance back to Herc. He’s turned away, going over a tableted list with someone you don’t recognize. Work of a new Marshal’s never done, you guess.

Cas catches you staring. “We can wait.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, gently. “Go talk to the guy.”

God, you adore them both. It’d be so easy for them to feel snippy, or jealous, or anything else. But nope—they just know you, and they know him, and they know what you mean to each other. What you meant. You nod. “Yeah, all right. But seriously, don’t wait—I’ll catch up.”

As the crowd bears Dean and Cas away, you weave back through the mess of people, Herc in your sights. He’s just finishing up with that guy, and starting to look around. He smiles when he sees you, and meets you halfway. “Come on, Chief,” he says, almost bashful. The crowd’s thinned. “You don’t have to mind me. Time to celebrate your victory.”

“Pyrrhic at best.”

His mouth presses together. “It’s war,” he says. “Every victory is Pyrrhic.”

You touch his good shoulder, tugging him toward you with your fingertips. “C’mere, will you.”

He lets you hug him. For a moment he just stands a little stiffly, his sling pressed between you. Then his good arm comes up, and wraps around you and clings. Tightly. His jaw presses against your temple.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, hoping he feels how deeply you mean it. “Please let me know how I can help.”

He grates, “Not your job anymore, love.”

“Bullshit. Friends can help just as well as—as other people can.”

“Maybe.” He pulls back. His eyes are a little red-rimmed. “But you deserve to celebrate without sadness.” He smiles. “We can mourn another day.”

He breaks your heart, sometimes. “I won’t forget,” you insist.

Herc squeezes your hand. “I know you won’t.”

He’s right. You deserve to celebrate without mourning. For once in your damn life, years of hunting, and apocalypses, and trading lives for victories—for once, you deserve to celebrate with all the people you love.

You kiss his scruffy cheek, lingering for just a moment. Then you follow the last of the stragglers down the hall.

 

* * *

 

The boiler room is _bumpin_ ’. There’s no windows, and it’s already toasty, but somebody’s got a lighting app that’s making the place slowly cycle through different colors in the darkness. Somebody’s dragged a sound system in, and J-Pop bounces through the speakers.

Everyone wants to hug you, even people you only know in passing, and surprising yourself, _you_ want to hug everyone, too. Tendo makes his way there and instantly presses drinks into your hands, into Dean’s and Cas’ hands, too. He _wooo_ s with the rest of them; you sip the ‘dome-distilled hooch and grimace and yell in people’s ears as they yell into yours.

Before long, you’re all separated, but it barely matters. They keep catching your eye across the sea of people, Dean’s eye crinkles visible even from here, Cas ignoring everybody who bumps into his bum arm. . . lord, they’re making you silly with glee.

As Cas sends you one particularly heated look, you wish you could share yourself with him. You got his memories through Dean, but all he’s got to go on from you is whatever you and Dean tell him. It’s one-sided between the two of you. But with the last Jaegers gone, not to mention the Breach collapsed, they won’t get to drift again. And you won’t get to drift with Cas. You’ll have to make sure he knows how much he means to you, since he can’t see down into your soul the way Dean did. 

Someone jostles your elbow and you almost slop hooch down your front. Laughing, you turn to tell the person it’s cool only to realize it’s your favorite scientist.

“Hermann!” He’s—whoa. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him without a tweed jacket, but there he is, white button-down with the sleeves rolled, no less. He actually blushes as you look him up and down, surprised. “Wow, man, I heard you drifted with Newt, but I didn’t expect to see the cross-effects so soon.”

He laughs, bright and easy, and looks across the room. For Newt, apparently. “No one’s more astonished than me, I promise you that.”

“Drifts, am I right?” 

His brows lift and lower. “You can say that again.” He raises his own cup of hooch. “Although yours seemed to work out just fine.” 

“Yeah, I mean.” Dean and Cas are off talking to Raleigh, who’s grinning broad and bright. It’s a nice change from the stoic, sad, grown-up-too-fast Raleigh during the mission brief earlier. “Lucky I had a good dude to drift with. Just wish I had the chance to do it with Cas, too, y’know. Or all three of us. Doesn’t seem fair that we gotta start this thing off with Dean knowing everything about me, but Cas is left out—”

Hermann’s blinking at you, trying not to look too pleased.

You rub one of your temples, staring down at the hooch. “Christ. How much alcohol is in this?”

“Do you really want to know?” 

“I. . . good point, I do not.”

He drinks deeply from his cup. “For what it’s worth, my friend, I think everyone’s figured it out by now.” 

“ _Great._ ” The temple-rubbing only intensifies. "Super weird, right?" 

“Please. As if anything’s licentious anymore. And if you like. . .” He leans in. “Forgive me if this is an overstep, but if that’s truly something you wish, all you have to do is ask.”

You squint. “If _what’s_ something I wish.” 

“A three-way drift,” he says patiently. “Or have you forgotten that I’m a certified simulation operator?”

Holy shit, he is. And the simulator is built so that it can hold up to three pilots. “Dude. You—you could do that? But it’s not—simulations gotta be authorized. Pretty sure I couldn’t get them sign off on one just for funsies.”

“Then they don’t have to know.” 

You laugh, giddy at the concept of Hermann Gottlieb, rule-breaker. Also that you might actually get to do this. “When would we even. . .?” 

“Well.” He glances around. “Everyone seems preoccupied. How about now?”

“Um.” Booze flares warmly along your insides. “Yeah, you know what? Yeah. Now.”

It’s easy to track down Dean and Cas, considering all the eye sex you’ve been having. They agree pretty much instantly, but Cas takes your hand, holding you back. “You’d really—you’re sure?” 

“Dude, _yes_.” Since apparently everybody knows anyway, you kiss his cheek. “This is important.” 

His shoulders relax, his eyes shining with gratitude. His jaw bobs helplessly.

You grin up at them both. “C’mon.” 

The three of you slip out of the boiler room with Hermann. And you’re almost home free around the corner when a shrill voice calls, “Hermann!”

Hermann turns, but instead of the eyeroll you expect, he fights a smile. “Newton.”

“I thought you were finding someplace we could—” Newt Geizler pulls up short as he realizes you’re all together. His shirt’s untucked. There’s a worrying blood spatter down the lapel, and his glasses are cracked. “—uh. Make out?”

“Still the plan,” Hermann says warmly, while you, Dean, and Cas blink in surprise. “Just helping friends get to it first.” 

Newt gestures between you three, eyebrows waggling. “‘Friends,’ huh.” 

“Apparently,” you mutter, “this shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Nah, it’s not.” He flaps both his hands now. “Well, c’mon, the sooner you guys get where you’re going, the sooner Herms and I find a supply closet and get busy. Where we heading?”

The simulation room door is locked. Hermann pulls out a badge attached to his belt loop by a long length of retractable cord (“ _Wow_ ,” says Newt, “grandpa nerd alert,” and Hermann says “Oh, shove it up your arse, Newton,” and Newt says “I dare you,” and Dean says “You guys are _killin’_ me.”), and the entry screen shows a readout of his credentials. The locks turn; lights flicker on. The simulation platform side of the room goes _vvvvVVRRRRR_ as it starts warming up. “Hey,” you say, paused at the steps up to it. You were already kind of nervous, all the drifting, and, and, the _sharing_ on the horizon, but now the idea of getting caught is making your palms sweat. “Look, even if nobody shows up—Hermann, can’t they tell you’ve swiped your card?”

“What are they going to do?” He flips switches on a panel at the control side of the sim. “Fire me? The war’s over.” He ignores Newt’s literal heart-eyes and taps on the mic. “Can you three hear me out there?”

His voice is coming through the speakers now. “Loud and clear,” you say, with a thumbs-up.

“All right. Then into position, everyone.”

You, Dean, and Cas trade nervous glances. This is old hat for them by now, but it’s a decidedly new hat for you, even with two drifts from Dean. There’s no telling how much more you’ll see from any of them, and how much more they’ll see from you. What if they see something they hate? What if something they see could. . .

Cas takes your hand. “Listen,” he says, “whatever we see—whatever you show us—there isn’t anything that could stop us from caring about you.”

Muscles unwind that you didn’t even realize were tense. You squeeze his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Sure about that?”

“Positive.” Dean’s watching you, eyes bright and fond. “You’ve seen all our crap, and you’re still here. And we got some pretty serious crap.”

“Hey. Wouldn’t be anywhere else.” 

“See?” Dean nudges you. “Exactly.”

The three of you head on up to the platform, and to a cart with helmets stashed like bowling balls. 

You line yourselves up, standard three-team formation. Cas lets you have the right side again, and takes the spot slightly behind you and Dean both. No harnesses to connect to this time, even though you and Dean are still in your drivesuits. Just helmets.

“All right,” says Hermann on the other side of the smartglass. “Twenty seconds.” A countdown appears on the HUD interfacing.

Dean clears his throat. “Hey, Doc, if you want, you don’t have to stick around. I know you guys have, uh. . . places to be.”

Hermann looks unimpressed. “Well—someone should be here, just in case. . .”

“Dude.” Newt, who’s been leaning against the control room wall, phone in hands, looks up now. “Two thirds of them have been drifting for longer than you’ve had your degrees. They got this.”

“Yeah,” says Cas, holding back a smile. “We got this.”

“Well.” Hermann looks a little uncomfortable. But he’s also got one eyebrow up as he watches Newt. “I suppose, if you—if you just, turn off the lights when you’re done, power down with the main. . .” He gestures at a lever. “Leave everything as you found it. . .”

“My man, we’re on it,” you promise. Thank gawd, too, because if Dean and Cas about to show you some—some _stuff_ —then getting super hot and bothered in front of friends isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.

“Very well,” says Hermann. “All right, then. I’ll make sure the handshake’s tight, and then we’ll leave. Five seconds.” 

“Good deal,” says Dean, and the three of you glance at one another a little breathlessly.

Here you go again.

Blue light rises up, plunges you into your own mind, and against the current of their memories and yours, one thing surfaces, crisp and clear, and you’re— 

_—_ _not gonna be_ Hail Mary _’s chief unless Dean Winchester and Cas Novak are my pilots. I won’t give up two top-notch rangers for a couple of kids who think they’re big shots.” Whitcomb’s staring daggers at you, her hands braced on the desk. “I need Dean and Cas,” you hear yourself say. You got this far with them, and that day in the Impala still comes back to you sometimes, the promise that you made to stick together, when you put your hands—_  

_—around the microphone._ Mary _’s screen is showing one pod ejected, so Dean’s on his way to the surface, but she—she’s still down there, and she’s clearly disoriented from lack of air. Geizler jostles into you with something breathless about running out of time. Pain sears through your broken arm, but she’s down there alone, so much worse off. Dean and Sam have always been there for each other, and for you, when it was clear one of you wouldn’t make it out of the fight. You can be that person for her. But it’s impossible, unbearable, trying to keep it together as you talk her through it. Please,_ please, _if anyone’s listening—it can’t be the end. This can’t be—_

_—the last time you felt so at ease. You’re exhausted, yeah, and worried about Cas and what losing his grace might mean. Also weirdly smug that he told Hannah and the angels to get bent. But the Mark’s off your arm, and the kiddo here, she’s starting to nod off in the backseat beside you, and it’s—fine, it’s adorable. You’re ready to nod off, too. Sam’s driving, Cas is lost in his own thoughts, and it’s dark. You prop yourself in the corner of the backseat, really settling in. She watches. And you—screw it, screw all of it. Worst she can do is say no. “Got room for you here,” you say, opening one arm. “You look ‘bout as tired as I am.” Surprised, she hesitates. Then she adjusts her lap belt and shifts on over. All the potholes on 72 West, the traffic outside Decatur Sam tells you about later thanks to an overturned semi, and still, with her head settled beneath your collarbone, one hand on your chest, you haven’t slept that good in—_

_—years since it started,” Dean says, flopped back against the pillows as he stares at the ceiling. To anyone else he might look blank, vacant, but you see the cogs turning behind those bright eyes. “She’s always just. . . I dunno, man. I barely know if I can keep_ this _goin’. You’n me. Let alone. . . whatever the hell she’d be to us.” “Dean.” You’re leaning on an elbow on the mattress beside him. His bedhead is better than you could’ve possibly imagined. “You’re overthinking this. If the situation’s appropriate, we could suss out how she feels, but until then, we’ve been maintaining friendship as usual for years. We can do keep doing it awhile longer.” He sighs out a deep breath, and rolls to face you, smiling. “Yeah, you’re right.” “I usually am.” “That is_ not _true.” “It’s_ always _—”_

_—another article, this time in_ Rolling Stone _. With a pushy-ass interviewer. You thumb through it, bewildered when you get to this section: “Watching Dean and Castiel together, it’s obvious why their Kaiju kill count is on the rise. They’re a team, a partnership, even outside their Jaeger. Given the fact that they’ve been dating going on three years now, I asked what the future holds for them. Dean just rolls his eyes. ‘If you’re asking when we’re gettin’ hitched,’ he says, ‘we ain’t.’ ‘We’ve talked about it at length,’ Castiel assures me. ‘It just. . . it isn’t for us. We know we’re committed to one another. And we don’t want to completely exclude—'Here Castiel flat-out stops and looks away. Dean quickly takes the lead. ‘—we’re Murphy’s Law people. We get hitched, the universe is gonna find a way to fuck us over. Don’t wanna exclude the possibility of a long, happy life together.’” Jesus, if even the interviewer picked up on Cas holding something back, what the hell did Cas not want to say? Exclude what? You pick up the strong-ass drink you’ve poured for yourself, and it burns—_  

_—the back of your throat, but at this point, you’ll take any distraction from the gleaming collection of knives laid out on the cart beside you. Knives, razors, scissors, pliers, a syringe, a canister of salt, a plastic jug of holy water, four kinds of alcohol, an empty goblet. "You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got," Uriel said, before he zapped you here without even a heads-up. Now your stomach’s turning over, sour with booze. You remember this. The torturing. You remember this from both ends, no matter how much you ignore it during the day. Wasn’t any booze in Hell, though. The fuck’s it doing here? This Cas’ way to apologize? Some fuckin’ apology. You take another slug just for good measure, and your stomach settles. It’s getting harder to keep Alistair’s words from barbing beneath your skin. He’s hitting you where you live. Direct goddamn hit. “—but daddy’s little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty—”_

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is a solid, rumbling warning from outside the drift.

You blink the blue away; the HUD in front of you shows big, red warnings. _ALIGNMENT DISRUPTED_. _PILOT #1: NEURAL HANDSHAKE 74%._

“I got it,” Dean mutters, chest rising and falling, “fuck, just—lemme control it, I—I got it—” 

You take over. You squeeze your eyes shut and think of—of anything else—

_—the thump of a coffee mug as Dean sets one beside you at the library table because you’ve fallen asleep next to your laptop for the third day straight. Your phone is full of texts from Cas, and a monster may have crawled out of the ocean but at least you have friends who—_

_—carved you into a new animal, Dean.” Your arm’s shaking, holding back from ripping him to shreds with Ruby’s knife. You can’t hold back; the floodgates are open and here it comes, the little details you’ve kept yourself from remembering, the blood on your hands, the taste of ash and arterial spray in your mouth, flesh beneath your nails, the stench—_

“Dean.” You blink away the blue light again and Dean’s just—standing there, motionless, one hand in a fist at waist-height. Exactly where he’s got an iron grip on the knife in this memory. “Dean, just take your helm—Cas—?”

“Damn it,” Cas mutters. “We can’t take his helmet off. If you’ve chased the R.A.B.I.T., the change is too— _damn it—”_  

Greenish-white light shines down from the upper reaches of the sim room. You can smell rust and water now, and somewhere distant there’s a steady _drip, drip, drip_  and the rumbling hum of a generator. Your mouth burns with whiskey even as you watch Dean put down the bottle.

Wait—as you _watch Dean_ put the bottle down. 

Drifts don’t work like that. Drifts are first-person slideshows. They’re not something you watch like a movie.

But as you look around, the sim room is gone. Instead you’re standing in the middle of Dean’s memory, a place framed with metal walls and abandoned equipment. No matter how much you blink and shake your head, you can’t bring yourself back to the sim room.

Fuck.

A low laugh starts up behind Dean, a voice like sulfur, one that makes your skin crawl. The rack comes into focus. You’d know the man chained to it even without Dean’s memories: Alistair. He’s covered in blood and vomit and other stuff you’d rather not think about, and his focus is lasered in on Dean. 

Movement to your left; Cas is there, eyes wide. It’s your Cas, the one with his arm in a sling. “We have to snap him out of this.” 

Just looking at Alistair is giving you fear-chills. “How?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. He hasn't gotten stuck here before, I. . .”

Dean looks so _soft_ in this memory. So much younger. His edges are less sharp, and there’s a bit of baby to that face still. How old was he for this? Thirty, not counting all the time in Hell? Still a kid. Just a damn kid.

Alistair’s still speaking to Dean’s turned back, and all Dean’s guilt, the disbelief, the terror, the incomprehensible burden of it—everything is rising back up like bile. But you have this memory from his and Cas’ perspectives, and any second now, Alistair’s gonna break free of that devil’s trap and beat the shit out of Dean. You won’t make him relive that. You can’t.

“Shit,” you mutter, stepping around to the other side of the cart. Dean looks absolutely traumatized, but his wide, watering eyes stare right through you. “ _Shit_. Dean?”

“No,” he says. His jaw’s clenching and unclenching. “I don’t think you are lying.”

“Dammit.” You wave your arms. Nothing. “ _Dean_. This isn’t happening. This is just a memory.” Struck with inspiration, you knock a bottle of liquor off the table, hoping that when it shatters—nope, it just reappears on the table. “ _Dean!_  Sam killed Alistair. He’s been dead for _decades_.”

Behind him, Alistair’s free of the chains, moving closer. Silently.

Cas swears a truly heartfelt swear, and then heads for the door behind you.

You watch him, bewildered. “Cas—what—?”

“Maybe if I come in the way he remembers me. . .” Cas pushes open the door; beyond it is. . . also Cas. Trench coat, blue tie, wild hair. Gripping the edge of a table, head bowed.

“Whoa,” you breathe.

Maybe its the presence of a new Cas, but old Cas fades out—legit just disappears—and your Cas turns back toward you. “That works,” he says, surprised. Then he strides forward.

Good thing, too, because Dean’s already getting the snot beat out of him, and with each impact of fist into face, your whole body flinches. Alistair lifts him by the throat, his boots dangling, and you’re just about ready to say _fuck it_ and wade in when Cas sinks a knife into Alistair’s back.

Alistair flinches, turning, dropping Dean, and instantly you’re there, hands on Dean’s arms, gathering him up. You haven’t seen this shirt in years; you haven’t seen that amulet in years, either, but there it is, thumping against his chest as he struggles to one knee. “Dean,” you say again, a mantra at this point, fighting panic at all the blood on his face. Jesus, that’s a lot of blood. “Hey—hey, c’mon, man, I’m with you, this isn’t real. You’re stuck in a memory. _This isn’t real_.”

His hands curl into your sleeves. His wet eyes float up to meet yours, and his brows twist with shocked recognition. Your name leaves his broken, bloody mouth as a question.

“Hey,” you say again, one hand on his cheek (which hasn’t been this smooth in years). You try to smile, keeping your focus on him no matter how much you want to look at the fight behind you. “Dean, this is just a memory. We’re in the drift. You chased the R.A.B.I.T..”

His eyes search yours, desperate to understand. Then recognition sparks again, realization on its heels.

Bright light flares behind you. Shit—you lift your arm, knowing from Cas’ vantage that this won’t go well until Sam shows up—but before you can completely hide your eyes, Alistair shouts, and then he slides past you and Dean in a bloody heap across the floor. You and Dean turn back to Cas.

Who’s glowing. His eyes are flared bright blue, his entire body outlined in soft light, and all along the wall on the other side of the room, the shadow of his wings spread wide in full threat and glory. His brows are low, his mouth in a thin line. You’re still connected, even if you’re caught here, and his fury is your own, beating down your veins. The idea that anybody would even _think_ about hurting Dean when you’re nearby. . .

Dean croaks, “Guys?”

Blue light floods in at the corners of your vision, and then it’s black, and then—

— _every muscle aches even before you open your eyes, and every shallow breath reminds you that you’ve got at least two ribs cracked—_

That’s it. Dean’s back. He got out.

You rip your helmet off. The first thing you see is the empty control room (right, you told Hermann to jet, otherwise he woulda shut it down long ago), then Cas pulling his own helmet off, then Dean. Dean’s legs shake; he yanks his helmet away, drops it, and gulps like he’s coming up for air. His knees go out.

Cas is at his right side and then you’re at the other. Dean lands on his ass, but not too hard, thanks to Cas’ good arm and both of yours. “ _Dammit_ ,” you mutter, knocking into Cas’ sling, but he says, “It’s fine, it's been feeling better,” and then you’re both beside Dean, right there on the floor. “Fuck,” Dean pants. His eyes are wet. He’s not babyfaced anymore, that’s for damn certain. His longish stubble rasps when he pulls a hand down his mouth. “Fuck, m’sorry. I—I didn’t—”

“It’s my fault.” As the words leave your mouth, tears plash right out of your eyes. Great. You scrub at them. “Dean—I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—”

“How the hell. . .” His eyes are so green like this. Unshed tears clump his lashes together again, like in that escape pod. “No it ain't. Not even close.” 

“I wanted to do this.” You sit back on your heels. “The three-way drift, this was my idea.”

“We all agreed to it,” Cas says gently. “And it’s been a long time since either of us did that. Got locked in.”

That’s a surprise. You brush at your eyes again. “You’ve chased the R.A.B.I.T. Before?”

“Few times,” says Dean. He sniffles, takes a deep breath. “First year or two we were driving _Mary_. Sims, usually. Guess we got pretty good at repressing the, uh. The triggers. Betcha can find ‘em all if you go digging.” He taps his temple.

“Trying not to.”

“Yeah. Smart.” He looks at Cas. “How did you—that’s not how it went down, back in that warehouse. Memories don’t. . .” Another deep breath. “You took over for the Cas in my memory, and you—you took down Alistair before Sam even showed up.”

“I’m not sure.” A line of concern stands between Cas’ brows. “Surprised me as much as it did you.” He touches Dean’s shoulder, gently. “How do you feel?”

“Peachy,” Dean mutters. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth, then looks down. “That was a really—really fucked up day. I wish you didn’t have to see. . . kid, now that you got some front-row seats to the shit I was dealing with back then, that I’m still dealin’ with. . .” He swallows. “Y’know, I’d. I’d get it if you wanted to back out now.” 

“Dean.” You scoot in closer, essentially jamming the front of your body into his side, ignoring how your legs jostle him. “Did I not make it crystal clear that I’m in this for the long run? Because I’m in this for the long run.”

His eyes flicker over to yours, a little desperate, like he’s begging you to make him believe it. “Listen.” You take one of Dean’s hands, and he grips tight. “I didn’t need the drift to know I was gonna stick with you guys no matter what. I’ve known you a long time. I woulda been gone _years_ ago if your baggage scared me. But it doesn’t. It makes you who you are. And who you are is _so_ —I’ve wanted that guy to like me from the minute we met.”

That makes him smile. “You did, huh.”

“Are you kidding me? Yes. You have that info now, too. You could dig for _that_ if you wanted.”

Dean’s smile grows. He rubs at his nose with his free hand. “I didn’t know you had to talk Marshal Whitcomb into taking us with you to Sydney.”

“I didn’t, either.” Cas is glowing with delighted disbelief. “You really fought for us.”

“Yeah.” You look away, face heating a little. “Wasn’t about to let two random kids from Iowa take your place.”

“You _needed us_ ,” says Dean, and elbows you, getting you grinning. “C’mannn, you said it.”

“Well, _you_ said . .” It comes back to you then. “Hold up. That _Rolling Stone_ interview. Cas, what did you mean about ‘excluding’—”

“You,” he says simply. “We didn’t want to exclude you, if there was even a chance you’d want to be with us.”

Your eyes fill all over again. “You guys didn’t trade rings because of me?”

“Not when you put it like _that_ ,” says Dean, and, under Cas’ stare, shakes his head. “I mean, fine, it was because of you, but even if you _didn’t_ want us—which, remember, is what we were thinkin’—the three of us, we. . . with Sam gone for so long, we three were all we had. Rings woulda put up a barrier even in just, y’know, being friends, and we didn’t wanna. . .” He looks at Cas. “I’m screwin’ this up. It made sense at the time.”

“Makes sense to me.” You sniffle, and take a deep breath. “Jesus, we’re all a bunch of idiots.”

“Terrible at communication,” Cas agrees.

“Well,” says Dean, “how ‘bout this for communication: I’m so damn tired I could sleep for a week.”

It hits you all at once, how heavy your limbs feel. How your eyelids drag. “Same,” you agree. “Cas?”

“I may not have saved the world today,” he says, “but we’ve all been awake since yesterday. I could get some sleep.”

Dean’s thumb strokes over your knuckles. “You wanna stay over?”

You duck your head against his shoulder, grinning. “Yes. Duh.”

The three of you help each other to your feet. Then you leave the simulator room behind. 

But this morning still has one surprise left. You’re rounding a corner when a light overhead flickers, sparks, and then _bursts_. You've already flinched, watching glass rain down, but Cas stops so suddenly that you nearly run into him.

There’s a woman standing in the middle of the empty hallway. Soft brown curls, casual gray blazer. Cuffed jeans. Sensible boots.

Cas breathes, “Hannah.”

Hannah smiles, warm and radiant. Her blue eyes shine. “Hello, Castiel.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damn, thank you all so much for the lovely comments, the yellies, and all the support as you stuck with me for this ridiculous beast of a fic. I started this whole thing years ago, when I was first getting into this fandom, and now, at long last, it's actually DONE, what the HELL. Wouldn't have happened without you. Yes, you!
> 
> SO MUCH LOVE. <3

 

 **_January, 2025  
_** **_Hong Kong City_ **

 

You and Dean flank Cas’ sides, automatically angling yourselves in defensive stances. Cas just stares at Hannah, thunderstruck. He croaks, “What are you doing here?”

She must notice you and Dean ready to fuck shit up, because she holds up her hands, half surrender, half placating. “I’ve come to share good news.”

Cas glances at you and Dean, and you hear the silent _stand down_ as if he’d said it aloud. Reluctantly, you both do. 

“Well,” Dean grumps. “Let’s hear it.” 

Her smile grows again, eager. “Heaven has reopened. We felt the collapse of the Breach, and the host is already beginning to return to Earth.” Her head tilts; her brows come together. “You didn’t hear us over angel radio?” 

Cas is gritting his teeth. “I’ve been human for ten years.” 

“Because being cut off from Heaven drained your grace,” she says. “I know. But when the gates reopened, you should’ve. . .” She takes a step closer, truly concerned now. “Castiel, can’t you feel it? Your grace is coming back to you.”

You and Dean meet each other’s wide eyes before looking at Cas, who’s blinking at Hannah. Slowly, he says, “No, it isn’t. And I turned off angel radio the day you left. Kept it off.”

“It’s there,” Hannah insists. “Your grace. Not all of it, not yet, but. It’ll return much faster than it left you.” Her smile is hesitant now. “Try it.”

Cas clenches his jaw. “No.”

Your heart skips. “Cas—?”

“I made my choice.” Cas steps forward, staring Hannah down. “I chose humanity. I’ve lived with that choice for decade, and I’d do it all over again. Keep the grace. I don’t want it.”

“Cas,” breathes Dean.

He looks back at you both, and his eyes go soft and hopeful. “It’s the truth.”

“Yeah,” you manage through a tightening throat. “That’s why we’re so floored, here.”

Hannah looks like she might cry, too, but for a completely different reason. “It’s beyond my control. Heaven is open, and your grace will return to you whether or not you want it back. If you truly want to live without it. . .” She looks away, the thought incomprehensible. “Call on me once it’s completely restored. I’ll ensure it’s removed safely.”

“You mean the throat thing.” Dean gestures at his own neck. “Yeah, pass on that.”

“I said _safely_ ,” Hannah repeats. “Doing it on your own could kill him without someone to heal him afterward.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, soft, apparently going for diplomatic now. “I’ll take you up on it.”

She nods. “Then I look forward to seeing you again.” She inches closer, her eyes on Cas. Shattered glass from the broken bulb crunches under her boots. “I don’t know if you have enough now, so if you let me. . .” She touches Cas’ bum arm in his sling. Her eyes glow hot blue, and when the light fades, Cas’ sling is gone. So is the cast.

Man. If only your first thought wasn’t _hey, that’ll make sex loads easier_. Yep—still thinking about boning at completely inappropriate times. _Classic_.

Cas flexes his hand, shifts his unbroken arm, astonished. The cut on his forehead has disappeared, too, plus the bandage holding it together. “Thank you.”

She dips her head. “Happy to help.”

“Wow,” mutters Dean, “right. Yeah. ‘Happy to help.’ If you’re so happy to help, then where the hell’ve you been the last ten years, huh? All the attacks, all the—we got people dying in the streets out here, and you guys were. . . what. Preening?”

“Dean,” says Cas, warning.

“I don’t blame you for being angry.” Hannah sounds like she means it. “But it wasn’t my decision.” 

“Shitty excuse,” says Dean, but he doesn’t snap, he’s just sounds tired. “Try again.”

“We don’t have any excuses you’d like to hear.” Hannah’s eyes are flinty. “But we’ve already sent a number of angels to help out in the city. Right now. The districts that got hit hardest in the latest attack.”

Dean lifts his chin. “Good.” 

“Great start,” you agree. “Just—keep that up, will you? People really need. . .”

“I know.” She nods. “I’m on my way there now.”

“Hannah,” says Cas. “Thank you.”

She smiles, her attention back on him. “I’ll see you soon, Castiel.”

With a _whumph_ of wingbeats, she’s gone.

Dean runs a hand down his face. “Cas, you okay?” 

Cas turns back to you both, bewildered. “I. . . I don’t know.” 

“Can you feel it?” you try. “Your grace?” 

“Now that I search for it. . .” He presses his mouth together. “It’s there.”

A faint ringing rises at the edge of your hearing, and then his eyes go blue—bluer than usual, a faint glow. With a sound like ice clinking together in a glass, the shards of shattered lightbulb tremble on the ground. Then the light overhead flickers back on, the bulb whole and bright. There isn’t a trace of broken glass left.

Cas releases a breath, panting, and the light fades from his eyes. So does the ringing in your ears. 

“Welp,” says Dean, a little shaken. “Guess we know how you screwed with that memory in the drift.”

“And your arm, earlier,” you point out. “I knocked into it and you didn’t even flinch.” 

“Yeah.” Cas wets his lips. “I meant what I said, though. Once it’s all back—I’m giving it up. Permanently.”

“You know you don’t have to, right.” Dean takes a step closer. “If that’s what you want—” He glances at you. “—then I think we’re both on board with you keeping it.” 

“Yeah.” You move in, too. “Exactly. Long as you’re happy, all right.” 

Cas deflates. “Thank you. I—it’s good to hear that.” He reaches for you both, and together, the three of you huddle together. Cas takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. His arms tighten. This close, this cozy, you remember how damn _tired_ you are. 

“Hey,” Dean mutters, “y’know, Cas, with your arm fixed, that frees us up for some no-holds-barred sexy time.”

You and Cas snort.

“Yeah,” says Dean, grinning now, “kid, you’re not the only one picking the wrong times to get a dirty mind.”

You hang your head, face heating. “Oh my _god_.”

“I can’t blame you,” says Cas, conspiratorial. “Dean, you did look incredible out on the helipad earlier.”

“ _Oh my godddd_ ,” you moan again, barely holding back mortified laughter, breaking out of the huddle. How did they _both_ zero in on that memory? “I’ll see you guys later, I’m gonna go leave the country and change my name. You’ll never find me.”

Somewhere down the hall, around a corner, there’s commotion. Laughter, and a drunken _WOOO_!

“C’mon,” says Dean, catching up. “You can enter witness protection for the terminally embarrassed after we get some sleep.”

You stop by your room as they continue on to theirs. Toothbrush, a handful of stuff from the bathroom, change of clothes for later. Jammies. Might as well _pretend_ you’re gonna sleep in clothes, right. 

When Cas lets you in, Dean’s stripping off his drivesuit. His dog tags bump against his tee. “Gonna hit the shower,” he says. “You wanna join?”

“Hell yes.” You gulp. “But, ah. . .” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Too tired to pull any funny business. Cas, you in?” 

Cas is smiling, his eyes roving over Dean’s body. “Not sure if we’ll all fit in that stall.”

Inspired, you nudge him. “I thought it doesn't matter whether or not you’ll fit.”

Dean grins. “She’s got a point.” 

“That she does,” says Cas, heat in his eyes. 

You go first, keeping the bathroom door ajar as you peel out of your drivesuit. It’s gross as hell now from sweat and ocean, but you fold it up neat since they keep the place spotless. You bump the shower on, and as the water heats, you study their various shampoos and soaps, standing in clusters along a ledge. You’ve been getting whiffs of this stuff for years, and now. . . now you set your own soap onto the ledge next to theirs. It’s bizarrely intimate, and your heart skips pleasantly at all the implications.

The hot water eases the tension out of your muscles, relaxing them one by one as you shift in a slow circle, craning your neck to keep your hair out of the water. You didn’t realize you were still wound up so tight, but apparently the almost-end of the world can do that. You might doze off right here.

When Dean shows up, gloriously, _beautifully_ naked, even that isn’t enough to get you all the way awake. Though he looks you over appreciatively, his eyes are drooping, too. He stands behind you, hips held back. He soaps up your shoulders, runs his thumbs deep across them, deep and slow, unlocking your muscles until your legs practically shake. When Cas arrives, there’s no room no matter what jokes you made, so Dean finishes rinsing off, presses his damp mouth to your cheek, and then lets Cas slide in with you. 

You nearly doze off against Cas’ shoulder as his hands run warm and slow up and down your back. You’re pressed to his side, fighting a grin when you notice that he’s half-hard, and he murmurs, “Ignore that; it doesn’t know what it wants,” and you snort. 

The three of you towel each other off. The jammies were a good call. Maybe you could sleep naked, but your pajamas are _soft_ , and way less sweaty than three people pressed skin to skin. You pull on loose shorts and a loose tank; Dean steps into boxer-briefs and a tee. Cas goes shirtless with boxers.

“Cas.” You’re sitting in the middle of their huge, custom-welded bed, eyes barely open. “So you—your grace. Is there enough there to keep you from needing sleep?”

Cas lifts the sheets at your right, slipping under them. His bare legs brush against yours, a warm, delicious rush. “I’m exhausted, if that’s what you’re asking.” He smiles reassuringly. “Maybe I could use it to keep myself up, but I don’t want to. I won’t.”

Dean’s sitting at your left, his eyes on Cas. “You. . . you wanna talk about it? All this?”

“Not really. We can do that later.” His hand comes up—the one that was still broken just an hour ago. He cups your face, smoothing a thumb across your cheek. “For now, I just want to savor this.” 

Works for you. Dean grabs the light (though there’s still plenty coming in from the window—it’s morning, after all), you settle in on your right side, then Dean scoots in behind you. He gets one arm beneath your neck, his chest pressed to your back, his knees tucked into the bend of your own. Cas faces you, close enough that Dean’s arm draped around your middle can hold one of Cas’ hands while you hold the other. Your ankles tangle with Cas'; your foreheads touch and tilt. Settled, the three of you breathe out long and slow. It’s so cozy, you feel like you’re floating.

You’re nearly asleep when Dean mutters, “Kid, are we bein’ too clingy,” and you grin, shifting back against him to get even closer. Impossible, since you were already touching from shoulder to knee. 

“Nope,” you whisper, pressing your mouth to Cas’ knuckles. “Perfect amount of clingy.”

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, sleep-slow, “you’re thinking about it too hard.”

“Give _you_ too hard,” Dean mutters back.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face.

 

* * *

 

The hatch creaks. There’s Dean’s voice, talking quietly to someone in the hall.

You lift your head from Cas’ shoulder, squinting. Outside the window, the clouds have cleared, so it’s sunshiny in here. Dean’s got his head out the door, and he’s wearing gym shorts over his boxer-briefs. _His ass, though_ , you think, and then grin when you remember that you don’t have to hide that kind of feeling anymore.

You sit up, running a hand through your hair. The clock on the nightstand says 1:17, so that was what—almost five hours of sleep? _Hell yeah._ The sun brightens the room, warming your skin where the light shines. Cas is still asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. You study those gorgeous pecs appreciatively, admiring on down his tanned skin until you reach his warding tattoo. A neat little rectangle of Enochian at his waist.

In your memory—in his memory—it burns. It _hurt_ , the pain unlike anything he’d experienced so far, but he gritted his teeth and bore it because he knew he deserved it, and much worse.

Heart aching, you touch the back of his hand. He breathes in, awake, and turns his hand over so he can take yours, pulling it up against his chest.

The hatch closes. You look up to find Dean hoisting a tray of coffees and a paper bag, almost exactly like Sam yesterday. Uh, last night. This morning? Point is, like Sam. And Dean stops when he sees you and Cas, his whole face softening. “Hey,” he says. “Morning.”

“S’the afternoon,” says Cas, his eyes still shut.

“Pedant.” Dean sets the goodies down on the desk. 

You yawn, and ask on the tail end, “How’d you score those?”

“Made Tendo an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Dean takes the lids off one of the coffees, inspects it, then reseals it. He brings it over to you, smiling. “Didn’t wanna go myself. Never woulda made it to the mess hall. This place is lousy with reporters.”

You take the coffee, giddy, inhaling deeply through the opening. “Good thinking. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Dean touches the back of your neck and kisses your temple before moving back to the desk. “Cas, got one here for you, too.”

Cas sighs, then squeezes your hand, lets go, and sits up, scooting back to lean against the bars of the headboard. Mm- _mmm_. His hair stands in a wild mess, the muscles in his arms shifting as he moves. He takes the coffee, squinting up at Dean, and clearly fights to remain grumpy when Dean smooches his temple, too.

“Hey,” you say after a sip. “Did we forget about Sam?”

“Nah.” Dean gets onto the bed, cross-legged, facing you and Cas. “I texted him when you split to get your stuff.” He pulls his phone out of his shorts pocket. “Apparently he’s back on site out in the city, and hungover as hell.” 

Your own head’s a little sore, but the coffee’s helping. “Guess that’s what happens when you chug Shatterdome hooch at seven in the morning.” 

The three of you just hang like that for awhile, chatting, sipping coffee, sifting through all the texts and alerts you’ve missed on your phones. “Press conference this evening,” Dean says, scrolling through one message. “You guys see that? Six o’clock. All the ‘dome’s top officials, plus us.”

“All three of us?” you ask through a mouthful of breakfast sandwich. Press conferences _suck_.

“All three of us,” says Dean. “Plus Mako and Raleigh, Herc, Tendo. Coupla big-wigs. The science guys.”

“At least people should be more intent on talking to Mako and Raleigh,” says Cas, who’s considerably more awake. “Since Raleigh’s the one who technically closed the Breach.”

“Fingers crossed,” you mutter. 

“Either way,” says Dean, putting his phone aside. “Memorial service at seven. So it can’t last too long.” He balls up the wrapper from his sandwich and chucks it at the bin. He glances at Cas. “How you feeling, man?” 

“You mean. . .” Cas’ chin dips. “How am I feeling with regards to my grace.” 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “That.” 

Cas closes his eyes. When he opens them, you expect glowing, but nope—normal. “It’s there,” he says. “I can feel it easier now—and more, every moment. It doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t want it.”

“Well.” Dean gulps. “Either way, we gotta wait for the tank to fill, right.”

“Right.” Cas takes a deep breath, thumbing at the lid of his coffee. “Until then, I can sort of—push it down. Avoid using it.” Slowly, he licks his lips. “That is, unless we want to use it.”

You stare. “You got something in mind?” 

“I can think of a few practical applications.” His eyes flicker over to you. They don’t glow, but heat’s there nonetheless. “Starting with intercourse.”

Dean nearly dribbles coffee. “You—what? How?” 

The corners of Cas’ mouth tug up. “No protection, for example.”

Your heartbeat lurches into double-time. You duck your head, already lost in imagining it.

Dean rasps, “You wanna say that again, Cas?” 

Cas’ half-smile is so fucking _smug_. “We wouldn’t need protection, since my grace can protect us against—well. Anything a condom would.”

You were already giddy with the thought of them being inside you, alternately, together, _whatever_. But the idea that you’ll actually get to feel the bare heat of them, skin to skin. . . it leaves you totally breathless. Warmth flares in your belly just _looking_ at the vee of Cas’ hips, diving down beneath the waistband of his boxers, and intensifies at the open hunger in Dean’s gaze as it rakes over the both of you.

“Okay,” Dean says, and slips off the bed, setting his coffee down on the desk. “Holy _shit_ , Cas.”

Cas glances at you, just as intense. “Only if that’s all right,” he says. “If it makes you more comfortable, we can still use—” 

You plant a hand on his knee and lean in to kiss him.

He smiles into it. One hand comes up to frame your face, tugging you closer, his mouth opening slow so he can smooth his tongue against your lower lip. You let him in with a relieved squeak, reveling in the taste of coffee and just, just _him_. He rumbles a happy noise and touches your shoulders with both hands; when you peek, Dean’s putting Cas’ coffee aside.

You get rid of yours, too, then come back and sit yourself down over Cas’ thighs. “Cool?” you ask.

He grins up at you. “Cool.” His hands settle on your hips to pull you down to his mouth and up against the half-hard bulge at the front of his boxers. It takes the air right outta you, the way his dick twitches, filling against your groin, with every shaky brush of your lips. The bed dips as Dean climbs aboard, and you reach blindly for him, coming up with a handful of soft tee.

Everything feels heavy, in a good way—slow, deliberate. Dean’s broad, warm, callused hand tracks up your side beneath your shirt, his thumb skimming along the curve of your chest before it continues on up your back. Cas’ touch meets Dean’s at the nape of your neck, and you pull back so the three of you can just _look_ at each other. You feel drenched in arousal, draped in it—it’s not the shaky-shivery rush of earlier, by the door. Here, you’ve got time, and it’s clear that all three of you are planning on _taking it_. You let those bright bolts of lust curl around your nerves, beat into your groin, heighten with every rise and fall of your chest.

“So how, uh. . .” Your mouth is practically watering. “How should we do this?”

Cas smiles. “However you like.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s hand slips down your back, his eyes big and soft. “Short of some seriously bendy crap—we can make it work.”

You gnaw your lower lip, face heating. “You—we kinda, um. What I want—we’ve mentioned it already. A few times.”

Dean’s throat bobs. “Taking me’n Cas at the same time, you mean.”

“Whether or not we fit,” Cas adds, his voice deep as the frickin’ Breach.

“Yeah.” You can’t quite look up. “Let’s hold off on that, uh, that dom-sub angle for now, but I—I dunno if I want you both in the same place, or one each in—uh—” 

Cas smooths his hands up your arms. “Let’s find out when we get there.” 

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay. _Neat._ ”

“Hey.” Dean’s there, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “We don’t _have_ to do anything. You change your mind—‘bout any of this—we’ll stop.”

“Thank you.” You bump your forehead into his. “Same for you guys, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Dean’s eyes hover on your mouth as he leans in.

His parted lips catch against yours, then sink into a luscious press closed, _in_ , and then open again. His hands cup your face, sliding back into your hair, and he tugs you deeper into the kiss. Blindly, whimpering at the glide of Dean’s tongue, you roll your hips into Cas’. His surprised groan sets Dean off, who moans into you. Dean takes it easy, leading and letting you follow until you start to relax. Well, no, you’re getting more wound up, more desperate, by the second. But he kisses you until you forget to be nervous, and you wrap your arms around him.

Cas has other ideas. He takes your hand, tugging it down Dean’s back until you’ve got one magnificent handful of ass. Dean goes _mmmh_ ; you bring your other hand into it, too, folding his ass into your grip, and he breaks off the kiss to groan. “Go ahead,” Cas murmurs, so you shift off of him, getting up on your knees to press thigh to thigh with Dean. You use the leverage of his ass to grind him into the apex of your parted thighs.

And _whoa_ , Dean is _hard_. You gasp against his jaw, heat arrowing deep between your legs as he nudges there, and you cup him through his boxer-briefs. He swears, _loudly_ , and you go still, but he says through his teeth, “No, keep—please—” So you knead your grip, panting as he thrusts into your palm. 

Luckily you aren’t wearing that many clothes, so it’s easy for Cas to pull your shorts down, tug Dean’s shirt up. The three of you watch it happening, breathing hard. Your groin _pounds_ with arousal now, gathered so fast and intense that it’s nearly painful. It’s slick when you close your legs to shift. You strip off your shirt yourself, and when you emerge, Cas is shimmying out of his boxers and Dean’s bobbing free of his shorts and boxer-briefs.

“Jesus.” Dean ducks his head, panting out hard in a _hooo_. He says your name, desperate and disbelieving. “All this time, and we're actually—we're here. We're really doin' this.” He looks back up, his green eyes wide and searching.

Your heart pounds. “Whatcha wanna do first?”

He licks his lips, then tugs the lower one into his mouth. When he lets it go, he glances at Cas, then at you. “C’mere,” he says, holding out a hand.

It takes a few laughing, mortifying moments, but eventually everybody lands where Dean wants ‘em. He’s flat on his back. You’re up above him, thighs shaking on either side of his jaw while he runs his hands up them, soothing. You’re facing his body, and facing Cas, whose knees dip into the mattress on either side of Dean’s hips. 

“Yeah,” Dean groans, hips rolling up a little, “this is what I’m talkin’ about. Cas, you got a taste yesterday. My turn.”

“Oh god.” The heat of Dean’s mouth is _so close_ where you need him. “Dean, come  _on_ , just—”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hooks his wrists at the top of your thighs and tugs you down to his mouth.

He kisses gently, barely enough to nudge into your parted folds, but you cry out anyway, legs truly shaking hard now. Cas tugs you to him; you brace your hands on his smooth, muscled chest, your forehead to his jaw, panting, each exhale nearly a whimper. Dean kisses deeper, and then on back, toward where you’re well and truly wet. His hands dip further between your thighs to hold them open. 

Cas ducks his chin, finds your mouth with his own, and you moan into him, biting down on his lower lip. You wrap your arms around his neck, letting him support your weight. Bared like that, his hands envelop your breasts, working the tips through his callused fingers. Beneath you, Dean opens his mouth. 

Your body jolts with the shock of pleasure, the hot, wet pull of Dean’s tongue, the way he presses it firmly against your clit and just _holds it there_. “ _Fuck_ ,” you gasp against Cas, and Dean rumbles a satisfied groan and starts circling his tongue, still pressing firmly.

“He’s good, isn’t he,” Cas murmurs.

“ _Yeah_.” You’re rocking your hips. Can’t even help it. “God, I—I need—” 

Dean unlatches one arm from your hip, and you lose track of it until you startle at the press of two fingertips into your soaking-wet entrance. “Fuck,” he groans, “ _fuck_ , you’re wet. This what you want?”

“Please. Please, Dean.”

“Thought so.” Those two fingers swirl, then press in. And further in still.

Fuck yes, oh, _fuck_ yes. Gasping, you take your own hand and wrap it around the hot, hard length of Cas.

Cas makes a soft, surprised noise and rolls his hips up. You keep your grip loose and let him do it again. His thumbs move in stuttering jolts across your nipples, amplifying the electric arcs of pleasure conducted off Dean’s tongue and fingers. Cas drops one hand, and until Dean groans, you don’t think to look, but shit, Cas is thumbing that same maddening pleasure across one of Dean’s rosy-pink and perked nipples.

Dean adds another finger, and your thighs tremble as he pistons all three, curling a little on the way out, dragging white-hot pleasure along every millimeter. “Yeah,” you gasp, “fuck, I—need more—” 

 _“Four_?” Dean breathes. “Jesus, maybe we’ll both fit after all.”

You look at Cas. This close, the blue in his eyes is flecked with silver-gray. “Can your grace help with that, too?”

He nods slowly. Wonderingly. “I—yes. Yes, absolutely.”

You sit back on your heels so you can actually see Dean, albeit upside-down. _Whoa,_ his stubbled chin gleams with your arousal. His arms are up, one hand still clenched around your thigh, the other still buried to the last knuckles. He’s staring up at you in total, blissed-out wonder. He says, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out shakily. “Is that okay?”

 _“Yes_.” Cas smooths one hand up Dean’s chest. “I want to feel him against me. Both of us, wet because of you.”

“Fuck.” Dean’s eyes roll back as they close. His hips grind up helplessly, his dick smearing precome across his belly. “Wanna feel you just—tryna take us both. See how far we get.” 

“ _Nnnngh_.” That alone makes you tighten around his fingers. “Okay. Yeah. Um—let’s do four, four fingers, and then . . .”

Dean licks the shine off his lips, looking up again. “One of us should, ah. Start inside you. I mean, Cas, unless your mojo can do it all at once, the other one oughta just keep adding fingers.” 

Lust lashes against your lower belly, threatening to end it all right here. “Oh, god. You’ve talked about this before.”

“At length,” Cas murmurs. “But still—Dean’s right. Better to start slowly. By hand, so to speak.”

“Okay.” You pull in a deep breath. “So uh. Who’s the lucky first?”

They look at one another. Then they rock-paper-scissors for it. 

You lose your balance laughing, flopping sideways into the tangled sheets as Dean groans, “Come _on_ , best outta three!” and Cas still clobbers him.

“Tell you what,” says Dean, grinning at you, also propped up on his side now, “there’s no losers here.”

“That’s what losers say,” Cas points out.

As you laugh again, Dean slings a pillow at him, then hauls him in for a kiss. 

More choreography goes down. Dean ends up perpendicular on the mattress, his legs hanging off the long side. He wants you on top of him, same position as before, only now there’s room behind you for Cas on the mattress. And the whole expanse of Dean’s body is open to you.

So is the rest of the room, and a great view out the window. “Man.” Your face is warm. “Hope none of those news helicopters swoop our window.” 

“Would certainly make for a more interesting press conference later,” says Cas, mouthing at the side of your neck.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “If you think about it, it’s our duty to give ‘em something newsworthy.”

You snort, eyeing the golden, freckled expanse before you. “Good point.” You fall forward onto both elbows, then take Dean in one hand. His entire body jumps and then relaxes with a desperate little moan, and his hips roll up, working himself through your grip and back again. Giddy, leaning in, you whisper, “How’s this for newsworthy.”

He is blood-hot in your mouth, velvet-smooth, so damn heavy on your tongue. You work on down with curls of your tongue, up with your lips, slow as sin, and he drops his head to the mattress, turning to pant, hard, against the inside of your knee. He gets you back, though; you pull off to gasp when he plunges three fingers back inside you. The pad of his thumb lands on your clit and he presses in, stroking with slow, tight circles. In no time, the pressure inside you ramps up—four fingers. Holy shit, _four fingers_. “Yeah,” he rasps, “Cas, I think she’s ready for you.”

You nod into the cut of Dean’s hip, arms shaking as you hold yourself up. “That’s a friggin’ affirmative.” 

Cas drapes most of the way over you, the warmth of his body settling against your lower back, and he kisses along your spine. “All right,” he murmurs. “Here we go.”

He shifts his hips; Dean withdraws his fingers, mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and then the head of Cas’ dick fits snuggly, unstoppably, against your entrance. He holds there, hot and so fucking _real_ , nothing separating the dizzying heat of his smooth skin from the wet of your folds. Dean’s still swearing, twitching just inches from your face; you grin, still panting into his hip, hands clenched. Cas nuzzles your back, also panting, and loops an arm around your waist.

“C’mon,” you whisper. All this, everything, _years_ of waiting, wanting, and now he’s _right there_ , thick and hot. “C’mon, Cas.”

He _groans_ , and slowly, carefully, rolls his hips up. 

The heat of him spears you open, bit by agonizingly delicious bit, and you moan all the way in, until his smooth hips press snug to your ass. He’s panting in broken sounds, chest heaving against your back, loud enough that you almost miss Dean making the same noises. You push yourself up, getting back up on knees that shake so you can slump back against Cas’ chest. Both his arms wrap around you now as you twist to kiss him, one flash of his wide, pleasure-shocked eyes before you capture his slack mouth with your own.

He takes the kiss sin-deep immediately, his harsh, breathless groans fed directly to you. His arms shake. His hips twitch, and you whimper each time. 

“Cas,” Dean says faintly, “god, hold it right there. Don’t move yet.” His hands smooth up your thighs, tightening, and you realize he’s—he’s lifting himself up, getting his mouth closer to—

“Fuck,” you gasp as his tongue traces a deep, firm path through your folds—until the sensation disappears and _Cas_ cries out against your lips. He breaks off, forehead against yours. “Dean,” he breathes.

Dean hums and then his tongue is back, and then gone again, and Cas’ whole body twitches against yours.

Jesus Christ, this is filthy.

 _Hell yes,_ it is.

Cas buries his face in your neck and starts rolling his hips, slipping halfway out before plunging in again. Dean’s grip on your thighs loosens, and he murmurs, “Fuck—guys, okay, I’m gonna—Cas, if you’re gonna use that grace, now’s the time.”

The next time Cas plunges in, more pressure comes with him. “There’s one,” Dean murmurs. “How’s that, kiddo.”

“S’good, it’s— _dude_.” You shift your hips back to look down at Dean, who's bleary-eyed with bliss. “Can’t believe you’re still calling me that. How— _nnnh._ How old d’you think I am?”

He grins, still upside-down at this angle. “I can find another nickname.”

You pant a laugh, shuddering into their thrusts. “Don’t you dare.”

His eyes are so damn soft. He says, “There’s two.”

With some surprise, you glance down. Yep—Dean’s got his index and middle fingers slipping into you alongside Cas. “Fuck,” you gasp. “Okay. Dean—I—god, I need you up here. Can you still do this up here?”

“Yeah.” His other hand squeezes your thigh. “Yeah, you bet.”  

As Dean shifts out from beneath you both, you twist back to Cas, desperate for another makeout. And man, does he indulge you. His palms rove up your sides, over your breasts, fingertips stroking up the tendons of your neck. You shiver, pulsing around the deep-set twitch of him buried inside you. He slips his fingers down your belly, starts working his middle one over your clit, and you moan a noise you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t make the same one in return.

Dean gets settled, but the three of you realize pretty quickly there isn’t room this way. So you recalculate, and when everybody’s situated, Dean’s head is on the pillows and you’re sitting up, facing him, straddling his hips this time. Cas lines up behind you, his mouth on your shoulder as he sinks back inside.

Jesus, it’s good, and now you get to really see Dean’s face, his wide, gorgeous eyes as he watches the two of you like it’s his own private show. He reaches for you, and your fingers lace with his. He pulls you down against him. 

That change in angle makes you and Cas both groan, but settling your body against Dean’s feels like coming home. “ _Yeah_ ,” he grinds out as you stretch against one another. One of his hands slides up your back to tangle in your hair, piling it over his fingers as he tugs you down to his mouth.

 _God_ , you could live inside these kisses, the ease and depth, the slow dive of his tongue into your mouth, the softness of his lips, the slick sounds as you tilt your head. One of his hands slips down, encouraging you to lift your hips, and he gets back to it.

Cas, meanwhile, drapes himself over you, still giving you leisurely, rolling thrusts as they work together to work you open.

“Three,” Dean murmurs, nipping at your lower lip. “You feel that?”

Yeah. Yeah, you can friggin’ feel that. You don’t know if it’s grace, or just—just them, but you’re hovering on the edge of an orgasm already, pleasure and heat intensifying with every millimeter Cas moves and Dean stretches you. It’s got you absolutely wild to come, but you don’t want to. Not until they’re both inside you. “Guys.” Your voice is a reedy gasp. “Stop.”

They do, instantly; you lock a hand on Cas’ knee to keep him from pulling out before you can clarify. “Just—too fuckin’ close,” you pant. “And I wanna do it with both of you. M’ready, so just—just—”

“We gotcha.” Dean kisses you, his fingers leaving you in a rush that makes you shiver. “We got you, okay. Cas?”

“Mm.” Cas shifts, pulling out. God, everyone’s starting to sweat.

Your forehead is planted against Dean’s. “You need me to move—?”

“Just a little.” Cas tugs your hips up a bit more; you get back up on your elbows. “Perfect,” Cas murmurs. “Ready?”

Deep breath. Dean’s hands still slip up your back, soothing, his desperate eyes pouring into yours. You nod against him. “Ready.”

You barely process the first velvet-hot touch of them both to your soaked entrance before they spread you wide, _wider_ , obscenely so, and then nudge _just_ inside and stay. The press of pleasure, the _slide_ of it, a wet glide that somehow still sparks against your sensitive skin like lighting a match—a cry spills past your lips, wild and helpless.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean gasps, but Cas lowers himself against your back again, nuzzling against your cheek, your ear. “Relax,” he murmurs, but he’s panting, too. “We’ll wait for you. Tell me if it’s too much.”

“S’ _great_.” You tilt your head to nuzzle him right back, hands clenched near Dean’s shoulders. You can feel yourself trying to tighten up around them, so you force yourself to relax like Cas said, and just— _guh_. Yes. “ _Ungh_.”

“Fucking champ,” Dean manages, one hand in your hair, falling to the back of your neck as he searches your eyes, “takin’ us so easy—Jesus, Cas, doesn’t she feel—”

“Incredible.” Cas’ voice is a growl now, barely forcing words past his clenched jaw. “I never thought. . .”

You brace yourself, still with a conscious effort to hold your muscles lax, and then you ease your hips back another inch. And another, and another, _fuck_ , until Dean and Cas sink the rest of the way inside you. 

Cas shouts so loudly that you fear for the neighbors. Dean’s eyes roll back again and he drops his free arm over his head, grabbing one bar of the headboard. His knuckles blanch; his arm quivers. “Fuck,” he gasps, his brows up, mouth open. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Your body shakes, your walls clamping around them, so tight you can feel them throbbing, their every twitch magnified thanks to the heat of their bare skin against your own. It’s consuming you, that feeling, plus all the soft, warm touches in between, the salt taste of their skin on your tongue, the heady scent of sex and sweat and the traces of last night’s shower. It’s so fucking much. It’s everything. You close your eyes and _finally_ , after all these years, you stop imagining and start feeling. 

It’s a complete and total group effort. You rock yourself back, and they roll their hips forward. And god, the _noises_. It’s one thing to know what they sound like, thanks to the drift. It’s another to hear, in realtime, the deep, dark sounds from Dean that seems like he couldn’t stop if he tried. Cas’ breathless rhythm of “ _Ah—ah—nnh_ ”s, and the way he bows his head against your shoulder as he does it. Those sounds combined—it takes the heat pooling in your lower belly and swirls it tighter, deeper, brighter. 

You clench your fingers in the sheets and dip your slack mouth to Dean’s, drinking in his moan, tugging his full lower lip with your teeth. He palms the back of your neck, the side of your face, his thumb carefully tracing your cheek, such a wild contrast to the hot, raw, _wet-_ sounding thrusts, forceful enough to nearly bounce you off their hips. Cas braces one hand on the mattress, the other teasing and tripping over the pebbled peak of one of your nipples, at times with dizzying lightness, at others, with a tight, practiced twist, and you gasp as pleasure pulses, echoing, in your groin. “Please,” you manage, without really knowing what you’re asking for. Your eyes prickle. Your arms shake.

“C’mere,” Dean murmurs, finally letting go of the headboard, “c’mon, if you can take both of us, I can take both of you,” and he tugs you right down onto his chest so you don’t have to hold yourself up anymore. “Yeah,” he groans, his belly _so_ soft against yours, his hands in your hair again as you pant into his neck, “yeah, there we go. That’s the good stuff.”

You whimper in agreement. Cas lets some of his weight onto your lower back, nuzzling at the nape of your neck, lowering his head to kiss Dean. The filthiness of it is astonishing, the up-close flashes of pink tongue, wet lips, makes you clench involuntarily around them. They both gasp in surprise, breaking apart just to simmer at you. Then they move in. 

Cas mouths at the space beneath your ear. Dean does the same thing on the other side, his thumb at the corner of your mouth as he pants. “Tell us what you need.” His words are running together, utterly sex-drunk. “Let us do it for you.”

Your orgasm feels _just_ out of reach. As good as this slick, steady pace feels, it won’t get you there as soon as you want it to. “Fast,” you manage. “God. Faster, I need—need you guys to—to—”

“To really give it to you, huh,” Dean suggests.

“Leave that to me,” Cas growls. He gets back up, plants both hands on your hips, holds you steady, and picks up the _pace_. Whether it’s mojo or luck or physics, he takes Dean with him. 

“Yes,” you gasp, and holy shit, there it is, frictioned arousal rising toward a crescendo, “ _yeah_ , guys—please—don’t stop—” 

“God, I can’t,” Dean manages, “fuck, I’m— _fuck_ —” His head tilts back, his throat working as his hips roll and spasm beneath yours; his and Cas’ path gets easier and wetter, and Cas groans “ _Oh_ ,” from deep in his chest. That sound plucks against all your wound-up tension and vibrates it to bits.

“Fuck,” you gasp as pleasure and heat rocket through you, more and more with every hard clench around them, “god— _yeah_ —” Cas is really moving now, and they both thump into you with a thick, heavy _smack_ each time, the slap of it fizzling your orgasm out to your fingertips, all through your belly, your thighs, still shaking hard around Dean’s hips. It rolls over you in another wave, and Dean pulls you down to kiss those moans right out of you; Cas hides his eyes in your neck and groans again, hard, his hips angling up and _in_ , holding before barely easing back out just to slam heavily inside once more. 

At last, the three of you go still. Mostly. You’re all panting. Twitching, riding the aftershocks. You’re surprised to find your hands locked on Dean’s shoulders, and you loosen them, finger by finger. Cas shifts, planting his sweaty brow just below your shoulder. 

“Brace yourself,” Dean warns, and that’s when you remember from the drift: Cas has a tendency to just collapse after sex.

Cas laughs, and lowers himself gently, taking most of his weight on his knees so you don’t have to. “I resent being predictable,” he pants.

You laugh, too. Good lord, you are _covered_ in sweat. It’s in your hair, beading on your back, slipping between you and Dean. All the hell over your thighs. They pull out carefully, gently. Cas presses a firm hand over your sex, and somehow it brings you down instead of riles you back up. A cool flash of grace makes you jump. “There,” he murmurs. “So you won’t have to worry about the mess.”

“ _Nice_. Thanks.” You lift up, the air rushing to cool the gathered sweat between you and Dean. You flop onto your back, blinking at the ceiling. Dazed. “Holy _hell,_ you guys.” You glance over. Cas has settled down on Dean’s other side. Dean, both arms behind his head now, is grinning like a dweeb. You gnaw your lower lip to keep from grinning that wide, too. “Well. Was it—was it worth the wait?” 

“Honestly?” Dean shifts to look at you. He’s dazed, too, utterly starstruck as his eyes hold yours. “Yeah. Beyond my wildest friggin’ dreams.”

“You know the truth of that, too,” Cas tells you. He’s up on one elbow, his other hand resting on Dean’s chest, but his eyes hone in on you. “All our memories that you have now—we never dreamed it could be like this.”

“Thought we were too filthy to be allowed,” Dean mutters. He brings one hand down to cover Cas’, then shifts his other arm, inviting you to cuddle up against his shoulder and side. Which you do. Gladly. “Figured we’d need to start with one-on-ones. Which—let me say, would’ve been awesome, too.”

You turn your face to his shoulder, hiding your smile. “Yeah. I mean, still wanna do that. Eventually. That, and—yeah, there’s a lot. Lot more.”

“We know,” Cas promises. Man, he’s beautiful like this, all the tan lines of his shoulders, the pink press of his smile. His stubble rasps against his hand as he shifts. “We saw.”

“We’re into it,” Dean says. “Venn diagram, remember.”

“Mmh.” You nuzzle in, hitching a leg over his thigh. Contentment suffuses every limb. “So, uh. Back to sleep?”

Dean snorts. “God, I love how you think. _Yes_. But like. Just for an hour. We should probably get out there, and. . . I dunno.”

“Do something useful,” Cas suggests.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Exactly.” 

“Ugh,” you say. “Since when are _you_ the responsible one?” But even as you say it, snippets of memories float back to you—memories that aren’t your own. Nights in shitty motels, so hungry it kept him awake. Dad days later than he said he’d be, money and food running tight, the last of the Frosted Flakes gone to Sam for dinner. Dean's always been the responsible one. He never had a choice.

Throat tightening, you burrow closer into his side. “Sorry,” you whisper. “Shoulda thought about that first.”

"S'alright." He presses his mouth to your hair. “Welcome to life after drifting.”

“Blessing and a curse,” Cas murmurs, now setting an alarm on his phone. “But a small price to pay for saving the world.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you agree.

You’re almost asleep when, in a vague replay of everything that just went down, something occurs to you that you skipped right over at the time. You lift your head off Dean’s shoulder, and he cracks an eye, starting a smile at the look on your face. “What.”

You say, “Did you call me ‘ _champ’_?”

He laughs so hard that Cas starts laughing, too. Dean pulls you onto his chest and kisses you silly.

 

*

*

*

 

**_March, 2025  
_** **_Lebanon, Kansas_ **

 

The tarp sweeps off the Impala with a sound like a thunderclap, and she gleams in the low garage lights, streaks of shine chasing across the fenders as you walk a slow, appreciative circle around her. Dean’s grin shines, too, absolutely elated. He leans both hands on the hood. “Hey, Baby,” he purrs, eyes tracing over her in the _exact_ same way you’ve seen him do with you and Cas, spread out beneath him. “Miss me?”

Cas is leaning back against the railing with one ankle crossed over the other, smirking. “She looks good.”

“Yeah, she does.” Dean straightens up, walking around to meet you. He folds his arms, which just makes the muscles stand out beneath the sleeves of his black tee. _Squee_. “Tires definitely need air. Oil change, replace the gas—battery’s probably long dead, too.” 

“Easy fix,” you say. “You wanna push her outside, work out there? Actually supposed to be nice today.”

Dean looks at you like he can’t believe you’re even real. “Yeah. That sounds awesome. Cas, you want in on this?”  

Cas smiles. “I’ll help get her outside, but then I’ll leave it to the mechanics.” 

You and Dean look at each other a little bashfully. With no Jaeger to work on, and the social nightmare of that month-long press tour, you’ve been desperate for something you can dig your hands into and actually fix. And since you’ve retained a crapton of Impala maintenance from that drift, well. Dean’s all too happy to have somebody who cares just as much as he does.

The sun’s shining today, beaming down as you and Dean get Baby up on jacks and crank open the hood. He plugs an ancient radio into one of the nearby outlets, already tuned to the classic rock station out of Colorado Springs. Sam finds you both with dirty hands and smudged faces, rolling his eyes fondly as he sets down the battery Dean sent him to pick up this morning. Sam’s staying at the bunker for a few days, then heading back to the west coast indefinitely. Plenty of cleanup work still out there, and he’s been offered a pretty serious promotion. Dean doesn’t like it, you can tell, but he keeps his disappointment on lock around Sam. He’s come a long way since their explosive fight years back, when Sam first dropped the news that he was leaving beside a full duffel bag.

You and Dean work through the morning, into noon, pausing when Cas brings you both beers, or when Dean takes one of your engine-dirty hands in his and spins you around to whatever song’s playing on the radio. At last, just when you’re starting to get hungry, Dean tries the keys in the ignition again. So far, every attempt to turn her over has resulted in a worryingly hollow grind of protest, but now, Baby _roars_ to life with a deep, satisfying growl.

Dean laughs, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes standing out as he beams up at you. “That's how you do it,” he says over the rumble of her idling. “C’mon, let’s get Cas and take ‘er for a spin. Pick up some burgers at Donnie’s.”

“ _Yes_ ,” you agree, arms crossed on the open window ledge, “I am _in_.” You lean toward him for a smooch, and he grins into it.

Cas isn’t in his room. Which, _right_ , wow, you three all had separate rooms when you last left the bunker. Sam intercepts you and Dean looking puzzled. “Try your room,” he says as he goes by.

“Whose,” says Dean, “mine or hers?”

“Yours,” Sam calls over his shoulder, clarifying nothing.

You and Dean squint at each other. Dean’s room is closer, so you try that one first.

Cas startles when the door opens, and—oh.

Suddenly Sam’s comment makes more sense.

Cas is sweating through his gray tee, his jeans slung low on his hips as he lifts a hand to touch the back of his neck. “Um,” he says, “I didn’t expect—if you don’t like it, I can just as easily—" 

“It’s perfect,” Dean breathes.

“Beyond perfect,” you agree.

Cas has hauled a king bed frame out of storage, found a mattress, and added sheets. On one of Dean’s two nightstands, you recognize a lamp from your room. There’s another, shorter dresser beside the desk. Trinkets, framed photos—they line the ledge behind the bed, a collection of your stuff and Dean’s and Cas’ like you summoned it all right out of your most embarrassing domestic daydreams. The whole place smells pleasantly clean, too, like it’s been mopped and scrubbed and laundered.

“I know it’s crowded,” says Cas with a gulp, “but we usually don’t spend much time in—”

Dean steps into the room, frames Cas’ face in his engine-greased hands, and kisses him. Cas relaxes into it, grinning when Dean pulls back. “It’s perfect,” Dean repeats.

“It really is.” You touch a photo standing up on the desk, a candid shot of the three of you in Sydney, cut out from a magazine years back. “This is what you’ve been doing all morning?”

“Sam helped,” Cas admits. “But I wanted to make sure we had somewhere to sleep together tonight." 

“Mission freakin’ accomplished,” Dean says, still looking around in wonder. He turns back to the two of you. “Y’know, when we got back this morning. . . the whole place—powering it all up—that was familiar, but it didn't. . . I dunno, it wasn't  _home,_ yet. This, everything here. . ." He bats an index finger around. "Now it feels like home.”

"Dude, yes." You come back to them both. “Nailed it, Dean.” You reach an arm around Cas, but quickly pull back. “Shit—I’m covered in crap from the engine.”

“What say we rinse off,” says Dean, “then head out. Cas, we’re getting burgers. You want in?” 

“ _Yes_.” Cas smiles. “In for the rinse and a burger. I’m starving.”

“I’m in for burgers, too,” Sam says from the doorway. He’s leaning against the jamb like he was poured there, eyes positively sparkling as he watches the three of you. “That is, if you guys can behave yourselves in public.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean says, slinging a towel over his shoulder. He tosses one at you and Cas, too. “We’ll get it all out in the shower.”

“Gross,” Sam laughs, heading into the hall. Dean waggles his eyebrows at you and Cas before following Sam.

You study the room one more time, giddiness radiating through you. Cas _did_ pluck this right out of your domestic daydreams, now that you think about it. He and Dean had the same sappy fantasy as you did: all three of you combining your lives and your stuff in the one place you each felt truly at home.

After spending the last decade waiting for the world to end, you’d perfected the art of not thinking too hard about the future. Now, though, looking around at this glowing little room. . . “Bring it on,” you whisper. 

Then you sling the towel over your shoulder and follow Dean and Cas into the hall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's yell together on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com)


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